


Once More, with Pharaohs

by Duinemerwen



Series: Denial is a River in Egypt [1]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Accidental Voyeurism, Ancient Egyptian Literature & Mythology, Ancient History, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, But it's character development flavoured smut, Canon Compliant, Comedy, Enemies to Friends, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Enemies to Lovers, First Kiss, Fluff, Friendship, Gambling, Gen, Groundhog Day, Historical, Humor, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mild Smut, Plot, Possession, Pre-Canon, Pre-Slash, Romance, Slash, Slow Burn, Time Loop, Time Travel, action-related violence, badassery, denial is a river in egypt, temporary character discorporation, the epic of gilgamesh - Freeform, very temporary
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-28
Updated: 2020-03-01
Packaged: 2020-09-28 15:13:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 25
Words: 111,138
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20428025
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Duinemerwen/pseuds/Duinemerwen
Summary: Egypt, 1337 B.C.: Aziraphale gets stuck reliving Tuesday afternoon over and over again. It wouldn't be so bad, if every afternoon didn't start mid-argument with a certain disagreeable demon. Or if cooperation with the aforementioned demon weren't Aziraphale's only chance at escaping the time loop...Standalone, canon-compliant story featuring friendship and humour, with a side of angst, the smallest dash of romance, and a happy ending. Complete.





	1. Tuesday

**Author's Note:**

> This is a loose prequel to my first (complete) story, _[In the Face of Fear](https://archiveofourown.org/works/19838476)_, featuring my other favourite plot device: the Time Loop. Both stories are standalones, with _Once More, with Pharaohs_ expanding on an event briefly mentioned in _In the Face of Fear_. _Once More, with Pharaohs_ is also set about three thousand years beforehand, so Aziraphale and Crowley's friendship (if you could even call it that, at this point) is a lot more adversarial at first (don't worry, they get better.) 
> 
> Finally, I know that Crawley doesn't become Crowley for another thousand years or so... but I couldn't handle 100k words of _Crawley_, so he's Crowley here.
> 
> Much thanks to SilchasRuin and GraphiteGirl for betaing!

An angel and a demon stood on the banks of the River Nile, in the city of Akhetaten. The city was not to be confused with the Pharaoh Akhenaten, who even by the inbred standards of Egypt circa 1337 B.C. was a little bit _off_.

“I don’t see what the problem is,” said Crowley. The papyrus reeds undulated gently in the wind, as if to underscore how nothing untoward brewed in the Upper Kingdom. Beyond, a flock of ibises shared an uneasy peace with a trio of crocodiles. Date trees heavy with fruit dotted the bank, offering little shade in the midday sun.

“The problem, _demon_, is the Pharaoh’s veneration of Aten,” said Aziraphale.

“The economy is booming. The Kingdom’s at peace.”

“And the people are in the midst of a spiritual crisis!” cried Aziraphale.

Only the first two claims were technically true. The Pharaoh Akhenaten still reaped the benefits of his predecessors’ expansion in external trade, and maintained cordial correspondence with the major players in the Near East. However, he had of late turned his head almost exclusively to the religious rejuvenation of his kingdom. The people were not quite in the midst of a _spiritual crisis_, but there was talk in the taverns and the streets and the countryside. _He’s finally gone off the deep end, _they said, as they toasted Amun. _Apep has infested his head_, they said, as they staggered home at night. _He can shove the Aten up his ass_, one grandmother said. 

For a thousand years, Egypt had embraced a wide pantheon of gods. At times the falcon-headed Horus helmed the pantheon, at other times, the sun-god Ra, or the mother goddess Isis. But each deity had their time and place. In the mood for an orgy? Better invite Hathor. Nine months pregnant? Prayers to Bes and Taweret. Need to pass a scribe’s exam? Thoth’s your ibis-headed uncle. Aziraphale found the pantheon charming, if a bit overpopulated.

Yet twelve years ago, the Pharaoh had changed his name from Amenhotep to Akhenaten, given up worship of Ra and Isis and Horus, and turned his face up to the sun, the Aten. No more Hathor. No more Thoth. Only the Aten.

It wasn’t that Akhenaten was persecuting those who did not abandon the old ways. Those persisted. Aziraphale suspected that even the priests of Aten went home to pray to Amun or Isis or someone else every night. It was that the Pharaoh’s religious fervour came at the expense of competent governance. For one, state officials were reaping kickbacks for new monuments to Aten in questionably strategic locations. For another, relocating the capital from Thebes to Akhenaten was a massive logistical undertaking that tied up resources better allocated to agricultural research or scholarship.

And Aziraphale, as head scribe, was stuck supervising the transfer of records from Thebes to Akhenaten.

“Nah,” said Crowley. “The people are fine.” He bent down to the riverbank and picked up a small, flat stone.

“The Pharaoh’s not,” said Aziraphale. “This - sun worship thing you’ve convinced him to do, you probably slithered up and hissed in his ear when he was dreaming -”

“I did _not, _I was only there for moral support when he thought,_ maybe Aten should have a bit more credit_. It's very lonely, being ahead of one's time. Not that you'd know the first thing about being ahead of anything, angel.” Crowley threw the stone into the river, and watched it skip twelve times, scattering ibises from the surface of the river. “Oho, a record.”

“You - serpent -”

“Excellent obssssservation, angel,” hissed Crowley. “What are you going to do about it?”

Aziraphale threw up his hands. “What can I do? He’s already relocated the capital, rededicated half the festivals, and changed his own name.”

“He’s not torturing the unbelievers or waging holy war.”

“Is that what you’ve got scheduled for this afternoon?” exclaimed Aziraphale.

Crowley looked almost offended. “Hardly. Just got a temptation to cross off the to-do list this afternoon. Then maybe I’ll go frighten housewives doing their laundry.” He flicked his tongue at Aziraphale.

In the distance, one of the crocodiles snapped its powerful jaws around the neck of an ibis, who thrashed furiously. Aziraphale winced. “Masquerading as the local snake deity again?”

The ibis’s blood stained the water red. Black feathers littered the river’s edge.

“He has a name, you know,” said Crowley

“_He_ doesn’t exist.”

“_Apep_ is as real as anything else to these people,” said Crowley. “Plus, I’m not _just_ the local snake god. I’m the serpentine embodiment of discord! The Lord of Chaos!” He preened at the epithet, and Aziraphale snorted, despite himself. 

“There’s only one Lord, and you’re not Him,” said Aziraphale. 

“A bit of delegation’s good for the soul,” said Crowley. “What’s your afternoon look like, angel? Blessings for the newborn babes? Miracles in the farmers’ fields? Or are you going to shut yourself up in the Records Hall again?”

Aziraphale straightened up. “I don’t share corporate secrets with the competition,” he said, stiffly.

“Head office haven’t asked you to do anything, hmm?” said Crowley.

“They haven’t,” the angel admitted. “I’ve just got a delivery to receive, then it’s off to inventory the Records Hall.”

“Such is the glamorous life of the imperial scribe,” proclaimed Crowley to the crocodiles.

“And what are you? Head concubine?”

“You wound me, angel,” said Crowley. “I’m a priest of Aten.”

“Could have fooled me with all that jewelry,” said Aziraphale. Crowley _was_ wearing a lot of gold - gold wristguard-like bracelets, gold earrings, and a broad gold necklace, all set with red and black stones. 

“They all wear heaps of jewelry!” said Crowley. “You are _literally_ the only one who hasn’t figured out that out!” 

Aziraphale shuddered at the misuse of the word “literally,” and said, “They get in the way of writing.” His only concession to adornment was a triple-strand necklace of amethysts. He’d bought them from a struggling jeweler out of pity. “And you’re still a heretic,” he added. 

“So is everybody else here,” said Crowley. “And nobody’s getting smited. Neither are the Japanese, or the Peruvians. If I didn’t know better, I’d say that this was all part of -”

“- not another word -” said the angel, automatically.

“- the ineffable Plan,” finished Crowley, grinning.

“You don’t get to say things like that,” said the angel, his hands clenched at his sides so he wouldn’t be tempted to throttle the demon. “Not when you’re this _Apep_ half the time, and stirring up monotheism and religious discontent the next the other half -”

“Which half does talking to you fit in?” asked Crowley. 

_Damn him_, thought Aziraphale. The demon always seemed to know which of the angel’s buttons to push. Even worse, it was hard to stay angry at him. Aziraphale figured it had something to do with his relative isolation on Earth. Spend enough time amongst the humans, and you’d go barmy trying to find someone to talk to. Sometimes, they even had moments of cordiality, albeit punctuated by discorporations in the line of duty. He was still a bit sore over the last one, when the demon had gotten him eaten by a crocodile. It had been extremely painful. What’s more, the incident report had been terribly embarrassing to fill out. _Cause of Discorporation: Devoured by Apex Predator._ At least he’d been able to return the favour to Crowley a few years later, when an argument about the virtues of mosquitos had devolved into fisticuffs, which had devolved into a bit of attempted strangulation, which had devolved into a good smiting. 

Crowley flicked the hair from his eyes. “Anyways, all the spiritual hoo-ha keeps the pharaoh busy. Would you rather he had enough free time on his hands to wage war against the Hittites?” Aziraphale was silent, so he continued. “Didn’t think so. I’ll see you next week - enjoy your scribely duties, angel.”

Crowley was nearly out of earshot before Aziraphale called out, belatedly, “I will indeed!”

∽⧖∼ 

He didn’t actually enjoy his current scribely duties. The move of the capital from Thebes to Akhenaten necessitated tasks of an administrative bent rather than a scholarly one. The main library of the Records Hall, formally the Bureau of Correspondence of the Pharaoh, was more storeroom than library. Tax records haphazardly ported over from the old capital of Thebes piled up on one side, and paeans to Aten were stacked on the other. There was a long table and two equally long benches in the middle of the room, at which a dozen scribes sat, under Aziraphale’s nominal supervision.

Nominal, because Aziraphale had a pile of tax records on his desk, which effectively obscured a Sumerian clay tablet that he was translating. The tablet was in terrible condition. They’d come mixed in with a previous agricultural census. How they’d gotten there was anyone’s guess. Aziraphale suspected they’d been old war booty that only one of the former chief scribes had seen any value. And so, they had been saved from being recycled into mud bricks or wine jugs. 

And now, the happy responsibility fell to him to preserve the tale. Sumerian was not his linguistic forte, so he was translating it to Egyptian for posterity. He hadn’t really been able to linger in the Sumerian cities as much as he’d have liked, since he’d spent a great deal of it running around keeping evil at bay in the countryside, and then travelling back to the city to curb the worst impulses of those in governance, and then it was back to the countryside again to thwart Crowley... It did not leave a lot of time to sit down and read. 

At least Crowley’s rural wanderlust seemed to have abated enough for Aziraphale to insinuate himself into the scribal hierarchy this millennium. So, he’d planned to catch up on what he’d missed, and he’d hoped this to be something along the lines of the thrilling “Descent of Inanna,” or the beautiful “Lament for Ur.” But the further he progressed the translation of this particular story, the more he became certain that it was trash. 

> _Who can rival Gilgamesh? Who might say, “It is I who am king?” From the moment of his birth his name has forever been Gilgamesh. Two thirds god they made him; one third man they made him. The Great Goddess herself planned the shape of his body; glory, beauty and perfection were bestowed on him by Nudimmud. His foot was a triple cubit in size, his leg half a rod. Six cubits did he cover in each stride. His cheeks were flush with ample beard, and his hair was thick like barley. His beauty was beyond compare, he was the most handsome man on earth._

_Ah,_ Aziraphale thought to himself. _Authorial wish fulfillment disguised as historical fiction. Typical. _He’d _been_ in Uruk during Gilgamesh’s reign, and he could safely say that Gilgamesh was no taller or broader than an average human. Nor was the King of Uruk the most handsome on earth. No, that title would have to go to -

One of the scribes at the long table dropped his reed brush, breaking it on the mud-brick floor of the workshop. In a moment, the assistant overseer had handed him a fresh brush from the depths of his leather bag. The assistant overseer peered over at Aziraphale’s desk too closely for the angel’s taste, but he was relatively literate, extremely organized, and adeptly kept the other scribes supplied with fresh ink and new brushes.

The assistant overseer could probably handle the job himself, realized Aziraphale. There wasn’t much to processing the old records. Decades-old inventories of the imperial household were to be recycled for rough notes, or for the training of the junior scribes. The few documents which weren’t part of the imperial record was nominally to be destroyed, but in actuality, assigned to storage in the basement of the Records Hall, from which Aziraphale would sneak in at nighttime and spirit them into his own house.

It was not quite what he’d envisioned when he insinuated himself into Pharaoh’s administration as a scribe. Scribes were supposed to be more than bureaucrats. They were supposed to write stories and edit books. They were supposed to advance medicine and engineering and mathematics. He blamed Crowley for the shift in his duties. Aziraphale would not be spending his days cataloguing old records had Crowley not influenced the Pharaoh to build a new capital south of Thebes.

He should have chosen another vocation to inhabit. Something with fewer administrative trivialities to litter his path. Maybe an astronomer. All he’d have to do was set the calendars, invent constellations, and curate a fascinating collection of texts. 

Or maybe he could be a priest? Looking at Crowley, it seemed that the barrier to entry there was very low, though a touch of demonic influence was at work. He didn’t attend to the temples. He didn’t shave his head. Mostly, he seemed to putter around and sow heresy. Technically, Aziraphale didn’t need to do anything as Chief Scribe either, but he liked to think that was one of the many differences between him and the demon. He could _commit_ to his chosen role. Starting with the tablet translation. 

> _His men stand at attention, longing for his orders; but the old men of Uruk grouse that Gilgamesh has left no son to his father, for his arrogance has grown boundless. Gilgamesh does not leave a daughter to her mother, nor the maiden to the warrior, nor the wife to her husband. Yet Gilgamesh is the magnificent and glorious shepherd of his people._

_Sleeps with anything that moves,_ noted Aziraphale. _Definitely authorial wish-fulfillment._ He wished he could swap out the tablet for something else, but there wasn’t much of a choice of reading material in Akhenaten: anything that wasn’t a bureaucratic record or paean to Aten was not a high priority to be shipped over from Thebes. He’d already read all the _interesting_ texts that had slipped through. 

But it was still better than dealing with the pile of tax records on his desk. 

He alternated between reading the Sumerian tablet, staring sternly at the other scribes, and fantasizing about establishing a _real_ library of his very own, one full of unreadable ritual scrolls, and occult handbooks, and undecipherable prophecies...

“Sir? The last shipment is here,” said a messenger, startling Aziraphale out of his papyrus and parchment-scented reverie. He bore a cart of dusty papyrus scrolls behind him.

“Bring it here,” Aziraphale commanded, and he peered over the scrolls. _Last year’s harvest records._ “Thank you,” he said, without enthusiasm. He pressed a copper piece into the messenger’s hand, and bent over the shipment to unload them from the cart to the table unceremoniously, sorting them by nomes.

At the bottom of the cart was a small scroll, not of papyrus, but of parchment. Animal skins just weren’t _used_ for writing in Egypt. Papyrus was far cheaper and more readily available. _Definitely not last year’s harvest records._ Aziraphale picked it up, and felt something hum inside. He abandoned the other scrolls he had just unloaded to the assistant overseer, and unrolled it.

The scroll was a small-span wide, and perhaps a half-cubit long. It was wrapped around a simple wooden dowel, stained black. 

He realized he could not read the scroll. That wasn’t unsettling in itself. There were loads of languages that Aziraphale hadn’t had the chance to learn. Chinese, for example. He couldn’t get the tones to settle properly in his mouth. 

But it was not that the words were unfamiliar, but that the characters seemed to rearrange themselves before his eyes. Phrases looked different each time he tried to read them.

The overall impression of the text was that of the language of the angels. No examples of that work existed on Earth. All angelic writings were located in the Celestial Library, for reference only, not available for loans. Yet the language of angels was his mother tongue, and this was decidedly _not_ that.

In shock, he realized the writing was the language of demons. That it had come into his possession could hardly be a coincidence. _Perhaps Crowley was responsible?_ Unlikely - temptation by demonic artifacts was not his style. For one, acquiring demonic artifacts took patience and preparation. The demon’s style was more one of procrastination. Aziraphale swallowed a chuckle. He shouldn’t know Crowley’s _modus operandi_. Yet he did, which was troubling. 

In any case, it would not do to allow the scroll to fall into human hands. He glanced around the workroom surreptitiously, then tucked the scroll into his leather scribe’s pouch for later study. “I’ll leave the cataloguing to you,” he said to his assistant overseer, who nodded eagerly. The poor man was probably waiting for Aziraphale to drop dead on the job so he could be promoted. He’d be waiting for quite a while. 

Then Aziraphale swept out of the workroom, into his own office in the Records Hall.

Unlike his office in the Records Hall in Thebes, his office in Akhenaten was bare, furnished with only a reed mat on which to sit, and a low table on which to write. There was only one reed mat, because Aziraphale preferred that visitors to his office left quickly, or better yet, never materialized at all. 

He unrolled the scroll again, and taking a sheaf of scrap papyrus from a basket of old cattle inventories, and a reed brush from his bag. Then, he began to transcribe the scroll. 

∽⧗∼

The afternoon passed in a haze of dust and papyrus. The sun had begun to fall in the sky when Aziraphale finally stood up and stretched, trying and failing to relieve the cramps in his writing-hand.

He hadn’t gotten very far with the scroll. After transcribing and retranscribing the first word, it had come out looking different in his hand every time. He couldn’t even picture the first word in his mind, besides as a combination of a dozen other words, each taking turns at the forefront of the parchment.

The angel lingered in the main hall of the Records Hall for a moment, with its mud-brick walls and low ceilings. Petitioners thronged in the lobby, impatiently waiting for the next available scribe to take a letter dictation, or explain next season’s taxes owed, or contest the cattle census. 

One day he really would build a library worthy of true scholarship, one that drew thinkers from across the continent, but Akhenaten was not the right place for that endeavour. He could wait. It had taken two thousand years for the humans to invent writing on their own. He could wait another thousand years.

On second thought, maybe he couldn’t. The humans certainly had the creativity to invent all their stories and origin tales and such, but their literacy rates were appallingly low. More tales were lost than were transcribed for posterity, and the ones that made it to text were scattered in a thousand little cubbyholes across the world. A great library, like the one in Heaven, where he could rub shoulders with academically-minded humans. 

Then he chastised himself. He ought not to rub shoulders with humans at all. They died so easily and so quickly. It wouldn’t _do_ to get attached to anything on the planet. In a few thousand years, the apocalypse would come, and he’d have to do his part in wiping the planet clean. 

Aziraphale stepped out into the street right as the Pharaoh and his entourage crossed his path. He bowed along with the rest of the populace, waiting for them to pass. But a scrap of conversation caught his ear -

“Are you sure that the last scroll was not delivered to the palace?” asked the Pharaoh.

_Scrolls? _He had not taken Aktenaten as a great lover of literature, or anything besides a misguided buffoon. On the other hand, Aktenaten could have been referring to some bit of Aten-related apocrypha.

He shifted through the crowd, trying to keep within earshot of the Pharaoh and the Vizier. 

“It did not, your majesty,” replied the Vizier. “The soldiers retrieved it from precisely where you said it would have been, and it matched your description perfectly.”

“A parchment scroll, small. Wrapped around a black dowel,” said the Pharaoh. 

_Aha,_ thought Aziraphale. 

“Yes. They brought it back to Thebes without incident. Then we had it sent for shipment on a barge, for faster delivery.” 

“Yet the shipment appears to have been misplaced. Do you know which boat it was sent on?” 

“No,” admitted the Vizier.

“It is of no import. I have the other six, and I have studied them for long enough.”

“What is it that your Majesty is planning?” asked the Vizier. 

“A ritual,” said the Pharaoh. “One to right the wrongs of the past.” There was something wistful about his voice.

Aziraphale waited until the procession had passed out of sight. Then he ducked around an alley and spread his wings to follow the Pharaoh from above.

The Pharaoh’s entourage wound through the city, and into the hills to the east. They arrived at a flat-topped hill, and the guards fanned out around the site. Aziraphale hovered in place above. It was a strain on his wings, but there was no cover to be had in the hills. He prayed that the Pharaoh would not look upwards.

The sun was beginning to set.

He watched as the Pharaoh drew a wide circle in the sand, across the entire hilltop, and within it, a smaller circle. He lit a fire in the centre of the two circles, and he drew a small silvery-grey dagger, and pricked the index finger on his left hand. A drop of blood fell into the flame, and he began to chant.

It was not a language that had been spoken on Earth in thousands of years. _Oh, no_, thought Aziraphale_. _The flame turned green, and then the Pharaoh pulled a snake out of the reed basket beside him. He threw the snake into the fire, and it began to writhe and burn. 

Aziraphale folded his wings and plunged into a dive towards the Pharaoh. He didn’t know what the ritual did, what “wrongs” were to be corrected, or if Akhenaten was victim or co-conspirator. He only knew that something _bad_ was about to happen -

The snake was ashes in seconds. The Pharaoh plunged his hand into the fire and pulled out a glowing orb, like an ember, no wider than the width of his thumb - an egg.

Aziraphale was almost at him, now. But the Pharaoh must have heard his dive, because before Aziraphale could tackle the Pharaoh to the ground, damn the diplomatic consequences, he looked up. His eyes widened, and he slashed instinctively with his knife, nicking Aziraphale's outstretched arm -

And then Aziraphale’s life flashed before him. Or at least his afternoon. He was supervising the scribes in the Records Hall, and then he was clenching his fists at Crowley’s smug smile on the riverbank, and then he was diving back down towards the Pharaoh again - 

The Pharaoh shouted once more. An explosion of green light blasted forth from the egg in Akhenaten’s hand, and slammed him backwards through the air. 

He tried to shield himself with his wings, but the green light enveloped him completely, and then he knew no more.


	2. No Biscuit

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aziraphale goes through the second loop.

“I don’t see what the problem is,” said Crowley. 

“What?” said Aziraphale, blankly. 

He was standing with the demon on the bank of the Nile, gazing at a flock of ibises in the distance. The sun was at its apex in the sky. All seemed well. 

“The economy is booming. The Kingdom’s at peace. A bit of monotheism never hurt anybody.” 

Aziraphale stayed silent, trying to reconcile where he had _been_ a minute ago with where he was now. 

Crowley paused, and looked at Aziraphale strangely, as if he had sprouted horns. “Bast got your tongue, angel?” 

“Er -” 

Crowley laughed, and Aziraphale found his voice again. “- did you see that green light? And wasn’t it evening?” 

“No,” said Crowley. He bent down to the riverbank, and picked up a small, flat stone. “There was an evening yesterday, if that’s what you mean. And I had nothing to do with the explosion at the glassworks.” 

“What explosion at the glassworks?” said Aziraphale. “And didn’t we talk yesterday, too?” 

“As if,” said Crowley. He pitched his voice higher, in an unflattering imitation of the angel. “_Oh, Crowley, if we meet more than once a week, my manager will think I’m up to no good. Or in your case, that you’re up to terrific amounts of good. And we can’t have that, can we? Bad demon! No biscuit!_” He threw the stone and watched it skip across the river twelve times. Ibises scattered in its wake. “Oho, a record.” 

“I never said that,” said Aziraphale, glad to return to familiar conversational territory. “You’re putting words in my mouth. Isn’t it enough to have corrupted mankind and damned all of them to lives of misery and - well - damnation? You’re the serpent of Eden. And I’m -” 

“- an angel with a stick up his holy arse,” finished Crowley, smoothly. “You flatterer, you.” He poked the rocks on the bank with his foot. “Ugh, they’re all too _round_.”

“Silence, demon,” said Aziraphale, but he couldn’t summon the wherewithal to imbue his words with any particular divine righteousness. 

Crowley picked up a second stone from the assortment around them. “Yet here we are,” he said. “If I didn’t know better, I’d say you _enjoyed_ my company.” 

“I don’t,” insisted Aziraphale. “I’m here in a professional capacity only.”

“And there I thought this was a social visit,” said Crowley. “We had _such_ a grand old time in Sumeria last millennium.” He tossed his rock at the river. It didn’t skip at all, and sank right to the bottom. 

“A few drinks does not constitute a _grand old time,_” said Aziraphale. 

“Don’t forget Noah’s boat,” said Crowley, cheerfully. 

Aziraphale snorted involuntarily. He had spent forty days on a boat full of livestock in case Noah had done a shoddy carpentry job and the ark sprung a leak. The man was a _farmer_, not a shipbuilder. Crowley had tagged along too because he didn’t “feel like flying to Greece and waiting the storm out, thanks, I’m still knackered from the trip to India.” 

As it turned out, Noah had not botched the job. That had been good, because Aziraphale didn’t have to miracle away any leaks. On the downside, both the angel and the demon were bored out of their minds. 

And he couldn’t leave. The rain had soaked him to the bone on deck. Flying in those conditions had been out of the question completely. 

Aziraphale had never been to Hell, but he imagined it would be something like playing hangman on the ark. Noah and his family weren’t literate, and Crowley kept picking words like “haphazard” and “phlegm.” 

On the third day, Aziraphale snapped and brewed moonshine from a barrel of apples, because Noah had not thought to bring wine. He shared it with Crowley only because it seemed a bit pathetic to drink alone, and because the demon would have brewed his own batch from potatoes otherwise, and then Noah would be out a barrel of apples _and_ potatoes. The two of them had proceeded to spend the better part of the forty days getting squiffy in the hold. 

Then the cows and the sheep had gotten squiffy too. 

He wouldn’t call that a _grand old time_, but it had definitely been exciting. 

Crowley noticed Aziraphale’s snort, and eyed him with pity. “Gabriel still breathing down your neck? Or are you getting caught up in the holy spirit?” 

“No,” snapped Aziraphale, remembering himself. Though the all-departmental missives _had_ been a bit more rah-rah-rah of late. Smattered between “developing core competencies” and “leveraging synergies” were extra fire-and-brimstone admonitions, news about how Hell had set off a volcano in Greece and wiped out _all _the Minoans, and tidbits on how demons would try to swell their ranks by corrupting angels again. Some enterprising angel had taken the liberty to design motivational posters with slogans like “I want YOU for the celestial army!” and “When you fly alone, you fly with Beelzebub!” 

His favourite one was the one that said “Loose lips hasten apocalypses!” It never hurt to stay vigilant. Particularly around demons. Particularly around the demon standing in front of him. That particular demon was prone to plying Aziraphale with drink and leading him down rants about Gabriel’s aggressive management style, or Sandalphon’s disregard for personal space, or _by the way, Michael is coming down next Wednesday for a tour of the Theban palace, better make yourself scarce if you know what’s good for you, demon. _“I’m not telling you anything about our plans,” Aziraphale added, defensively. 

“Wasn’t asking you to,” said Crowley, and then he_ tsked_ at the angel. 

Aziraphale balled up his fists and tried not to slug Crowley. The last couple hours were getting to be a bit much and he wasn’t in the mood to be _tsked _at. 

Then, a crocodile snapped its jaws around an ibis. The other crocodiles whipped themselves into a blood rage, so as not to feel left out. The fragile peace between the two factions was shattered, and Aziraphale’s nerve broke too.

He forced himself not to run away screaming. At least not right away. 

“You know what, nevermind about all the Pharaoh. I’ve got to go,” said Aziraphale. “Duty awaits.” And he fled from the riverbank.

“This isn’t over,” called Crowley.

∽⧖∼ 

Time passed strangely in the Records Hall. Day in and day out, the scribes processed an unending series of tax records, harvest records, diplomatic records from the old capital. There was little difference between one cart of papyrus scrolls and the next. Aziraphale found comfort in that, today.

He thought he’d made more progress on the Sumerian tablet translation, but evidently not. Those old works were transcriptions of oral tradition, and as such, were terribly repetitive, so that the listeners could follow the story even if they were completely in their cups. It was probably a good idea to read the whole thing through before getting started on the translation, anyway. Then he’d get a better handle on the tone and direction of the story before committing anything to papyrus. 

Where had he left off? Somewhere in the middle of an overly flattering description of the protagonist, undoubtedly. 

He found the place where he had left off his reading, and continued onwards. 

> _The people cried aloud to Aruru, the goddess, saying, “You made him, O Aruru, now create his equal. Let them contend together and leave Uruk in quiet.”_
> 
> _Aruru washed her hands, she broke off a piece of clay, and she created Enkidu the hero. He was a wild man, clothed only in his own hair, and he knew nothing of the cultivated land or the inhabitants thereof. With gazelles he ate herbs, with the beasts he slaked his thirst._

Then followed several lengthy passages about how a temple priestess visited Enkidu and civilized him with her vagina. 

A scribe dropped his brush, and Aziraphale started. That couldn’t be right.

He skimmed the passage again. It was all as he had feared. The priestess had indeed civilized Enkidu through the power of sex, and afterwards, convinced him to meet with Gilgamesh in the city. Aziraphale revised his mental classification of the work from “trashy author-insert historical fiction” to “trashy genre romance.” 

> _Now Gilgamesh dreamt, and when he awoke, he told his dream to his mother, Ninsun, one of the wise gods. “Mother, last night I had a dream. I was full of joy, the young heroes were round me and I walked through the night, through the stars of the firmament, and one of them fell down from heaven. I tried to lift it but it proved too heavy.”_
> 
> _Then Ninsun said to Gilgamesh, “That is the one who was made as your equal, and when you see him you will be glad. He is the star who fell from heaven, and he is the companion that will never forsake you. That is the meaning of the dream.’_

  
_Oh, no. Destined soulmates_, noted Aziraphale despairingly. Why couldn’t he have gotten a copy of _The Descent of Inanna _delivered to the city of Akhenaten instead? 

“Delivery for you, sir,” called the messenger.

“Of course,” said Aziraphale. He stood up and absently tipped the messenger a copper.

He rifled through the scrolls - _last year’s harvest records again? Thought I processed them all yesterday._

And at the bottom, was a very familiar parchment scroll, wrapped around a black dowel. His hands trembled as he unrolled it. _Oh no_. It was as demonically unreadable as the last time he had seen it.

He pushed the scroll into his carrying pouch and ran out of the Records Hall, after the messenger.

“You! Stop!”

The messenger halted in the hallway. “What’s it, sir?”

“Where’s the shipping manifest for that last delivery?” demanded Aziraphale

The messenger pulled several scraps of papyrus out from his pouch. “It’s one of these,” he said. “Got ‘em from the ship’s captain.” 

“Which one?” asked Aziraphale, impatiently.

“Dunno, sir. I can’t read. The captain neither.”

Pity washed over Aziraphale. Of course the messenger couldn’t read. Only about one in a hundred could, and most of them were scribes in the Records Hall. The others were variously priests, nobles, and a handful of very lucky peasants. 

He could see what had happened now. Some Theban administrator or scribe had probably packed all the scrolls together in one shipment, but made a note that one of them should be sent to the Pharaoh and not the Records Hall. But the captain wouldn’t have realized the 

“Ah,” he said. “I’ll take care of them, dear boy.”

“Yessir,” said the messenger. He handed the manifests over, and scarpered.

Aziraphale scanned the pieces of papyrus. _There_ was the harvest records, and _there_ were the livestock audit, and _there_ -

There was the manifest for a shipment of a single scroll of parchment, for the Pharaoh’s eyes only.

_I already have the other six_, Akhenaten had said.

Aziraphale swept past the messenger at a swift walk. Halfway down the hall, he began running, sandals slapping on the mud-tile floor. 

He’d barely cleared the throng of petitioners in front of the Records Hall when he spread his wings and took off towards the ritual site. 

He arrived on the hill several hours early. To occupy his time until the Pharaoh’s arrival, he began to pace circles in the sand.

When that failed to ease his mind, he tried to fill his thoughts with pleasant things. Things like the light of Heaven and the glory of God, like a good angel ought to. 

That only went so far. There wasn’t much to say about the light of Heaven, except that it was bright, or the glory of God, except that it was glorious. It was comforting, in a way, but it did nothing to truly ease his anxiety. 

More and more he wished he’d brought a book to while away the time until the Pharaoh’s arrival. The scroll didn’t count - he unfurled it, and could barely even perceive the _shape_ of the words. 

If only he had a miswritten edition of the _Book of the Dead_. Or scrawled application instructions attached to a jar of ointment. Even a few slabs of the the terrible Sumerian story would do. Anything to take his mind away from the Pharaoh’s arrival. 

But Aziraphale didn’t have any books with him. He only had the thoughts of what might come to pass if he failed to stop the Pharaoh. 

An eternity cataloguing records in Akhenaten, for one. Few truly interesting texts had survived the transfer from the old capital to the new. There was nothing for him here but what he had squirreled away in his home - all of which he was intimately familiar with. 

He could fly up to Memphis or Babylon or Anatolia for supplemental material, but at this point he was really just waiting for literacy to take hold on the planet and supplant oral tradition. There weren’t enough authors on Earth yet to really build up a proper supply of material. 

Nor were there sufficient other pastimes to occupy him for eternity. The city of Akhenaten was not just a place where an angel could sit back and think, “When an angel is tired of Akhenaten, then an angel is tired of life.” Akhenaten was a hamlet, really, with a population less than one-hundredth that of Heaven. And being that a city had to amass a large critical mass of inhabitants before it could support the existence of starving artists, tapas restaurants, and street mimes, there would be perhaps another thousand years before any really interesting city rose on Earth. 

Though, it wasn’t that Heaven had any artists, tapas, or mimes lining its streets either. And barring a change in management, it never would. 

To top it off, he’d be stuck in Akhenaten for eternity with Crowley. Gone would be his quiet mornings accompanied by fig bread and light reading, replaced by pointless arguments with the demon from here on out. He could hear the demon’s voice in his head already, accompanied by a careless smirk. _“I don’t see what the problem is.”_ Over and over again. 

Sunset drew near, but nobody approached the hills. No guards. No Pharaoh. Aziraphale sat on the edge of the plateau. The locals said that Apep, the serpent of chaos, lay in wait below the horizon. Every day, the sun god Ra would battle and defeat Apep. Sometimes Ra brought his entourage to the battle. Sometimes it wasn’t Ra who slew Apep, but Bastet the cat goddess, or Ma’at, the winged goddess of truth. It made sense that if a battle happened every day, they’d want to mix up their tactics a bit. 

He thought the whole legend to be somewhat entertaining, particularly when reenacted by children on the street. One child would be chosen as the snake, and then blindfolded. The others would chant, “Spit on the Apep, kick the Apep, stab the Apep, set Apep on fire!” and then Apep would chase them by sound. Whoever was caught would be the next Apep, and it would go on until someone got bored. 

But now, he found the story rather grim. To fight the same foe day after day in an endless battle was a fate he had not fully fathomed before. 

_Perhaps tomorrow would be another day_, he thought, but as the sun dipped below the horizon, there was a flash of green light -

∽⧗∼

“I don’t see what the problem is,” said Crowley.

“What -” said Aziraphale.

“The economy is booming. The Kingdom’s at peace. A bit of monotheism never hurt anybody.”

“That’s not the problem,” said Aziraphale. A sinking feeling settled on him, like a heavy fog on a mosquito-infested marsh. 

“See?” said Crowley, triumphantly. “That’s what I’ve been telling you all along.” He plucked a stone from the riverbank.

“Twelve,” muttered Aziraphale, as the demon flicked it across the river.

“A record,” said Crowley, nodding approvingly. 

“I’ve got to go,” said Aziraphale, for the third time in twelve hours. And he left Crowley on the riverbank.

∽⧖∼ 

Aziraphale stood in his study at the Records Hall and drew a circle on the ground. He inscribed a smaller circle within the first, and then added some hieroglyphic text into the ring. That bit helped with reception, by cutting through the geomagnetic noise of a transmission. Or compensating for sidereal misalignment. He wasn’t quite sure what they did, but he’d been trained to use the glyphs, so that’s what he did. Aziraphale suspected that didn’t _really _need them to open up a channel to Heaven, really. A circle, seven fires, and the Words were probably all that were needed. But the way things were going, he thought it might be best to take every possible precaution. 

Then he produced seven nubbly candles from a chest. He arranged them around the circle, lit them with a snap of his fingers, and spoke the Words. 

A blue shaft of light filled the circle, and a voice spoke. 

“Hello, you have reached the office of the Voice of God. We are sorry that we are not available to take your call right now. Please leave a message after the tone.” 

The sound of chimes rang out. 

“Bugger,” said Aziraphale. He raised his voice. “Hello? Is anybody there? Anybody up there trapped reliving the same day over and over again?” 

There was no response. 

“I know you’re listening,” he said. “And I know You’re listening, too,” he amended, hastily. “But we’ve done Tuesday for about a few days now, and perhaps it’s time to move on to Wednesday? It’s not that there’s anything wrong with Tuesday, at all. I like a good Tuesday as much as a Thursday or a Friday, but I think we’ve reached the limit for what we can accomplish on this particular Tuesday.”

“The length of your message has reached its temporal limit,” said the voice. “Your call is very important to us. We will respond within five business days.”

And the blue light went out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. Gilgamesh passages now abridged from the N. K. Sandars translation.  
2\. Smite the Apep is [a real prayer](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Apep#Worship)! I've simplified it for the sake of the story.  
3\. Smite the Apep is not a real Egyptian's children game, but it _could_ be!


	3. Human Resources

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aziraphale confronts the Pharaoh, part 1.

“I’ve got to see the Pharaoh,” demanded Aziraphale imperiously. “It concerns the - the discrepancies in last year’s harvest records!” 

“The Pharaoh is very busy,” said the Vizier, scowling down at Aziraphale. He was a former general, with the build and temperament to match. His barrel chest perched on top of a pleated linen kilt, and his arms were adorned with golden wristguards. A half-dozen equally burly guards stood at attention at the entrance, each wielding a spear, and wearing bronze scale breastplates. All of them wore a sun-disk amulet around their necks, to mark their service to the Pharaoh. 

They stood at the entrance to the Royal Apartment in the palace of Akhenaten, a vast white-stone monstrosity. Painted papyrus motifs in red and blue crawled up the pillars that flanked the doorway. A fresco of Akhenaten and his family waving up at the sun-disk Aten sprawled across the wall. 

“It’s for his ears only,” said Aziraphale.

“And I am the ears of the Pharaoh,” said the Vizier. “Do not trouble the son of Aten with your trivialities.” He moved to block Aziraphale’s path. 

“Oh, for Heaven’s sake -” Aziraphale made a gesture to freeze the Vizier and the guards where they stood. 

Only, the Vizier did not actually freeze. He twitched a bit and continued obstructing Aziraphale’s passage, as if nothing had happened. 

But something _had _happened. The guards gaped, and a whisper of _witchcraft_ ran through their ranks. 

Aziraphale stepped backwards, and tried to turn the guards’ spears to harmless papyrus reeds. He felt the weapons shiver through the touch of his power, but they remained as lethal as they had been a moment ago. 

The guard directly to the left of the Vizier twigged first, and moved to strike Aziraphale with his spear. 

Aziraphale stepped neatly aside, and the spear passed by him harmlessly. 

The other guards exchanged glances. Then, emboldened by the first, they advanced on Aziraphale. 

The angel could dodge one spear easily. Two on a good day. But not five. “Let’s not get hasty, now,” he said, backing up. But then fear overtook him, and he turned to run. 

Aziraphale felt an impact in his back, and then an intense heat from where the point of a spear now protruded. Too late he remembered the foremost two lessons from Heaven’s weaponmaster, a lean, grizzled-looking Dominion. 

_Don’t drop your weapon_ had been the first lesson. Given that his flaming sword hadn’t been seen in over two thousand years, it was safe to say that the first lesson had not stuck. 

_Don’t turn your back on the enemy_ had been the second. 

The guard jerked the spear from his back, and Aziraphale fell forwards. Blood flowed from his chest over the white stone of the palace floor, and he grew lightheaded. His only two consolations were that the guards wouldn’t be able to loot the scroll from his corpse, because at least he’d thought to leave the scroll in the Records Hall for safekeeping, and that he would be able to bring up the matter of the time loop with his supervisor - 

His corporation heaved a last, gurgling breath and Aziraphale was wrenched upwards.

∽⧗∼

Aziraphale landed in the lobby of Heaven with a stumble. 

“Blimey,” said the janitor. He mopped the floor, which was already pristine. White light emanated uniformly from floor-to-ceiling windows on all sides, illuminating a model of the Earth that rotated slowly in the middle of the lobby. The Earth was completely enclosed in a glass cylinder that went all the way up to the ceiling. On one end of the lobby was the elevator. On the other side was the escalator that led to Earth. It was currently out of order. 

Ignoring the janitor, Aziraphale strode towards the elevator and pressed the “up” button beside the pearly white doors. The down button only went to Purgatory. He’d never been there, but by all accounts it was a terrible place where miscreant angels were sent to catch up on their paperwork. There were also humans down there, in somewhat better quarters, awaiting the birth and death of the Messiah to absolve their sins, which would not happen for another thousand years or so. 

A long time ago, in an all-hands meeting, Aziraphale had asked, “Why couldn’t the Messiah be born now?”

And Gabriel had elbowed him in the ribs and hissed, “Shut up, you’re embarrassing the whole department.” 

So Aziraphale had not broached the topic again. 

But he hoped that the humans in purgatory had some decent reading material to pass the time. 

The doors slid apart almost instantaneously, with a melodious chime. “Atrium,” a voice announced. It was the same voice who had spoken the out-of-office message in Aziraphale’s summoning circle. 

He stepped into the elevator. All the walls were mirrored, and he saw a whole line of his reflections stretching out in front of him into infinity. It was a disconcerting image, and he averted his eyes from his reflection to the dozens of buttons beside the wall. He pressed one of the buttons in the middle, next to “Human Resources.” It was not to be confused with Angelic Resources. HR delivered blessings and facilitated divine interventions. AR delivered celestial pay stubs and mediated employee grievances. 

“Human Resources,” announced the voice, and the mirrored doors opened. 

Human Resources was somewhat less imposing than the lobby, with a floor of industrial-grade cream carpeting instead of marble. Aziraphale stepped out of the elevator into the hallway. A hundred cubicles stretched before him, and two hundred eyes turned towards him. Aziraphale tried to ignore their gazes as he strode purposely towards a heavy wooden door far, far in front of him. 

He knocked on the door. 

“Come in,” said an authoritative voice. So he did. 

“Hello, Aziraphale,” said Gabriel. He wore a linen tunic with pleats so crisp they could cut flesh, or at least butter, and sat behind a heavy oaken desk, in an office with floor-to-ceiling wood panelling. Carvings of good triumphing over evil in gory combat decorated the wainscotting. “So good to see you. But so soon! Was it that demon again? Or crocodiles?”

“Er, no,” said Aziraphale. “It was the guards.” He sat down in the visitor’s chair opposite of Gabriel’s desk. It was a very uncomfortable chair. 

“Shame,” said Gabriel. He inspected the perfect nails of his corporation. “What happened?”

“I was on my way to speak to the Pharaoh, about a ritual he performed two days ago - though it was really still today - something involving a snake, on top of a hill -” 

Gabriel rifled through his filing cabinet. “Here we are,” he said, slapping a small stack of multicoloured folders onto his desk. “Miracles, rituals, and other assorted manifestations in the Lower Kingdom.” He skimmed the report. “The only interventions detected in the last week were a handful of blessings, one instance of miracling dirt off a tunic, and one instance of cheating at dice - probably that adversary of yours, Crawley -”

“Crowley,” corrected Aziraphale. He thanked his lucky stars that the logs didn’t show why or by whom the miracles were performed. 

“Whatever,” said Gabriel. He slammed the file shut. “I don’t know why you put up with him, skulking around corners and fomenting discord in your city. If it were me, I’d smite him so hard he wouldn’t dare show his tail on your turf for the next decade.” 

“Er, I’m working on that,” said Aziraphale. “He’s very wily, you see, keeps slipping out of my grasp -” 

“Well, work harder,” barked Gabriel. He took a deep breath, and plastered an unsettling smile back onto his face. “Point is, there haven’t been any full rituals in the area since the last time you called from the field, a few decades ago.”

“You sure?” asked Aziraphale, weakly.

“Positive,” said Gabriel. “Wanna read these yourself?” he said, and shoved the reports into Aziraphale’s face. “You better get your story straight in your next corporation requisition,” he warned. Aziraphale fumbled with the files, and dropped them onto Gabriel’s plush, creamy carpet. “Ergh, Principality. Don’t do it in here,” he added, and all but shoved him out of the office. 

“Just for the record,” added Aziraphale, halfway out the door. “Could you think of a number between one and a thousand?” 

“How about, _five hundred and go away_,” said Gabriel. 

The office door slammed behind Aziraphale, and he dropped his papers. A hundred pairs of eyes turned away from their wax tablets and sheaves of parchment to look at Aziraphale. “Pardon me,” he spluttered at nobody in particular.

He stumbled down the corridor, peering over the cubicle half-walls for a spot to sit and review his stack of papers. There were none, but all the angels averted their eyes whenever he even glanced in their direction. 

Except one. 

“Hey! Aziraphale!” called a familiar voice.

Despite his best intentions, Aziraphale turned towards the voice. 

Gold teeth glinted in his direction as a figure stood and waved from the middle of the cube farm. 

Aziraphale groaned silently. 

“No idea you were due up here for a performance review,” said Sandalphon. “How’s it going? Still thwarting evil on the mortal plane?” The stocky angel stood and started walking towards Aziraphale. 

“Yes,” Aziraphale ground out. 

Politeness dictated that he could not pretend he had not seen Sandalphon. 

“Good work,” said Sandalphon, and punched Aziraphale familiarly in the arm. Aziraphale winced. Sandalphon was now standing uncomfortably close to Aziraphale. He smelled very strongly of the cedar oil that priests used when preserving the bodies of the dead, or that surgeons would rub under their noses to cover the smell of putrefaction. It burned the inside of his nostrils. “I’m due for a promotion soon, after my commendation for the work in Sodom and Gomorrah. Going to spend some time in the field.” 

“What wonderful news,” said Aziraphale, and took a step away from Sandalphon and his pungent aura. Sandalphon took a step closer to Aziraphale. 

“My new role will be mostly communications, but I’m sure I’ll be able to fit a bit of fieldwork in there,” said Sandalphon. “Maybe try the human-to-salt transformations again.” 

Sandalphon’s enthusiasm for the pillars of salt disturbed Aziraphale somewhat. “Er,” he said. “Pillars of salt are old hat. Maybe you ought to diversify your skillset?” 

“Perhaps. How do you feel about transforming humans into pillars of stone? Or maybe something completely different.” Sandalphon looked thoughtful. “Flaying! Everybody loves a good flaying.” 

Aziraphale coughed, and said, “That’s a bit messy, don’t you think?” 

“Oh, yes,” said Sandalphon. “But there’s a real art to it, I think you might be able to work the blade so that the skin comes off all in one piece -” 

Aziraphale pulled himself together. “Right, it’s been really nice talking to you,” he said loudly. “Perhaps we’ll chat again next time I come up from the field.” 

“Well, where are you off to?” said Sandalphon. “Maybe we ought to get some ambrosia and manna together, I’d love to pick your brain about what makes those humans tick -” 

“Urgent meeting coming up,” said Aziraphale, even more loudly. “Can’t be helped -” 

“- and what they look like _on the inside_ -” 

“I’m going to go now,” said Aziraphale, and he turned away from Sandalphon and ran for the elevator.

He punched the down button. The elevator doors opened almost immediately, and he rushed in and started slamming the “close door” button. 

“Hey, wait up!” 

Sandalphon was getting closer. 

“For the love of God,” whispered Aziraphale. He pressed the “close door” button repeatedly. 

“Aziraphale -” 

The mirrored doors closed on Sandalphon’s face, and Aziraphale breathed a sigh of relief. 

But where to go now? He needed somewhere quiet. The library was the natural choice, and Aziraphale ached to see how the collection was growing. But he’d get distracted too easily there. He needed to focus. 

He pressed the second lowest button on the wall, and felt the elevator descend.

“Atrium,” said the voice. 

Aziraphale exited the elevator. 

There were no seats in the atrium. Heaven didn’t get a lot of visitors, and human souls came in through a separate exit - or so he had been told. So Aziraphale tucked himself into a corner behind the slowly-rotating Earth, and spread the papers over the floor.

There was no mention of any ritual in the last week of logs. It was as Gabriel had suggested. Nothing but entries of _blessed union_ and _miracled up manna for the poor_ and _smited demon_ as far as the eye could see. 

He put the files together in a little pile on the floor as well as he could, stood up, and began pacing through the lobby. 

“Oi,” said the janitor. “You gonna to clean that up?” 

“Tomorrow,” said Aziraphale. 

The floating model of the Earth in the atrium rotated slowly in its glass enclosure. One side of the globe was in shadow, and the other was in light. As Aziraphale watched, the Nile slipped into darkness again, and the lobby was enveloped in a blinding green light.

∽⧖∼ 

The next loop, he tried sneaking in the Pharaoh’s study through the garden. It was a nice garden, with a square pool in the middle, filled with lotus blossoms. Clumps of palm trees punctuated the flowerbeds. 

Too late, he realized that two guards patrolled in the shade under the roof at the garden’s edge. One had a spear and the other a bow. One turned his head, and Aziraphale ducked behind the thick trunk of a sycamore tree - 

He willed the guards to stop, and to forget they’d seen anything at all - 

The guards’ footsteps came to a halt. 

Aziraphale let out the breath he’d been holding, and stopped pressing himself against the tree - 

\- and he saw two nocked bows aimed at him. 

“Now, let’s not get hasty,” he said, quickly. “I’m just - er - doing an inventory of the plants in this garden.”  
  
One of the bows lowered. “An inventory?” asked the guard on the left, suspiciously. 

“Yes,” babbled Aziraphale. “Need to figure out what plants are here and which ones - aren’t.” He’d meant to end that sentence authoritatively, but it came out sounding like a question instead. 

The guard’s eyes narrowed. “What plants are here,” he repeated. “That’s easy. The plants that are here are the ones that are here.” 

“Look, my dear fellow -” began Aziraphale, trying to assert himself. 

A guard’s arrow sprouted from his eye. His corporation fell to the ground, and the rest of him was yanked upwards.

He stumbled into the lobby of Heaven. “Blimey,” said the janitor. 

“Ergh,” said Aziraphale. He retraced his steps from the pristine atrium to the mirrored elevator to the mass of indistinguishable cream-walled cubicles that was Human Resources, into Gabriel’s office. 

“Hello, Aziraphale,” said Gabriel. “So good to see you. But so soon! It wasn’t that demon again, was it?”

“No,” said Aziraphale, warily. “It was the Pharaoh’s guard.”

“Shame,” said Gabriel. “What happened?”

“He shot me through the eye,” said Aziraphale.

“That one’s new,” said Gabriel. He tsked. “Corporations don’t grow on trees, Principality.”

“Don’t suppose you saw me yesterday,” said Aziraphale.

“Can’t say I have,” said Gabriel, irritably.

“Would you believe me if I told you that we were all stuck in a repeating time loop?”

“Time loop, you say.”

“Yes,” said Aziraphale, hope swelling in his chest. “Where you repeat the same thing over and over again.” Maybe Human Resources was like the Records Hall, where days passed with little variance, and an angel couldn’t tell one day from another most of the time - 

“I have experienced that feeling, now that you mention it,” said Gabriel.

“Really? When?” 

“Every time you ask a question,” said Gabriel. He smiled at Aziraphale, all pearly teeth. 

“Could I see the intervention logs, at least?” asked Aziraphale, weakly.

“Don’t see how that could help,” said Gabriel, but he produced them from the abyssal depths of his filing cabinet anyway. “Knock yourself out,” he said. It sounded like equal parts threat and suggestion. 

“One last thing,” said Aziraphale. “Could you think of a number between one and a thousand?”

“Sure,” said Gabriel. “It’s - “ 

“Is it _five hundred and go away_?” said Aziraphale. 

“No, it’s _ninety go fuck yourself_,” said Gabriel. 

“Sorry to bother you,” said Aziraphale, and he backed out of Gabriel’s office.

He noticed all the angels in the cubicles around him staring. He looked straight ahead to walk briskly out of the Human Resources department while avoiding eye contact with anyone else. 

“Hey! Aziraphale!” 

Aziraphale put his head down and walked faster. 

“Hey!” A hand clapped on his shoulder.

Aziraphale spun around, only to come face-to-face with Sandalphon’s gilt teeth. “Oh, hello, Sandalphon,” he said, unenthusiastically. 

“No idea you were due up here for a performance review,” said Sandalphon. “How’s it going? Still thwarting evil down on the mortal plane?” 

“Yes,” Aziraphale said. 

“Good work,” said Sandalphon, and punched Aziraphale in the arm. 

His pungent, cedar aura was unbearable. 

“I’m due for a promotion soon, after my commendation for the work in Sodom and Gomorrah. Going to spend some time in the field,” Sandalphon continued. 

“Speaking of the field, I’ve got to be getting back,” said Aziraphale, before Sandalphon could segue into pillars of salt and flaying again. “Duty calls.” 

“You haven’t got a body,” said Sandalphon. 

“Yes, and I’d better be requisitioning another one,” said Aziraphale. He inched away from Sandalphon. 

“D’you think I should come with you, next time?” said Sandalphon, hopefully. “We can watch each other’s backs.” 

“No need to trouble yourself,” said Aziraphale, dully. 

“I’ve been promoted to a communications role,” said Sandalphon. “But a bit of smiting of our enemies would keep me sharp. Was it the demon who got you this time?”

“No,” said Aziraphale. “Just some guards.” 

Sandalphon perked up. “Oh, I can practice turning them to pillars of salt. Remember Sodom and Gomorrah?”

“All too well,” said Aziraphale. “Listen, Sandalphon, it’s been lovely catching up with you, but I’ve got to go -” 

“Where to?” said Sandalphon. 

Aziraphale suppressed a curse, and then his pride. Desperate times called for desperate measures. “Disciplinary review,” he said. “Nothing you need to worry about.” 

“Was it because of the demon?” said Sandalphon. “You ought to be a bit tougher on that serpent. “

“Exactly,” said Aziraphale said. “That’s what Gabriel said today. I’m too soft on evil.” 

But Sandalphon was just getting started. “Maybe turn him into a pair of snakeskin boots,” he suggested, a gleam in his eyes. 

Aziraphale cringed at the imagery. “Boots. Excellent idea. I’d better get right on that, then,” he said. 

Then he turned and sprinted out of Human Resources. 

Mercifully, Sandalphon did not follow this time. 

Unmercifully, the miracle logs were as empty as before. Aziraphale slumped down on the marble floor with the realization.

“Oi, you gonna clean up that up?” said the janitor. 

“Later,” said Aziraphale. 

“Ah,” sighed the janitor. “Maybe next time.” 

Aziraphale turned to the janitor at last. He was a rather nondescript fellow, with dark skin and callused hands. “Don’t suppose you’ve been reliving the same day over and over again,” he said.

The janitor smiled. “If you’ve got the proper frame of mind, every day is a new adventure, lad.”

“That’s no help at all,” said Aziraphale, gloomily.

“Sorry,” said the janitor. “I’m working on it.” 

Aziraphale glanced at the Earth rotating in the middle of the lobby, behind a wall of glass. The Nile had almost rotated into shadow. “Well, I’ll see you again soon,” he said. 

“That you will,” said the janitor.

And a green light overcame them both.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. Sandalphon is _that_ coworker.  
2\. In the show, Aziraphale got written up for doing too many frivolous miracles, but not for doing bits of Crowley's job, so the miracle tracking system up there is canonically _terrible_.


	4. This Far You May Come

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aziraphale confronts the Pharaoh, part 2.

Through trial and error, Aziraphale determined that the best time to approach the Pharaoh’s study was in the mid-afternoon. At that point, the sun was high enough that the guards wouldn’t look upwards to where he was hovering, but it was late enough in the day that the guards’ watch neared its end and their thoughts turned to sleep and dinner.

He hadn’t quite nailed the choreography. But he was getting close. 

Right now, he sat in the Records Hall, the demonic scroll sat stuffed in a basement storage chest for safekeeping. He hadn’t bothered trying to read the scroll lately. But he had made some good progress on the Sumerian tablet. Enkidu had arrived at last in Uruk, and challenged Gilgamesh’s strength. The two were beating each other bloody and leaving a lot of rubble in their wake. 

> _They grappled, holding each other like bulls. Gilgamesh bent his knee, and threw Enkidu to the ground. Enkidu spoke to Gilgamesh: “You stand alone among men. Your strength surpasses all others. Rightly have the gods granted you Kingship.” _
> 
> _In response, Gilgamesh helped Enkidu up to his feet. _
> 
> _Gilgamesh’s mother spoke: “This is the one who was made your equal, the one of which you dreamed. He is the star that fell from the heavens, and he is the companion who will never forsake you.” _
> 
> _The two embraced, and their friendship was sealed. _

Was that something that humans did to make friends, nowadays? What kind of friendship had ever sprung from conflict? War was a bloody business that ended with the pillage of the loser’s lands more often than the birth of healthy mutual respect. 

He put the tablet aside, with only a little reluctance. The time had come again to try and sneak into the Pharaoh’s study. He left his office and walked out of the Records Hall, ducking around an alleyway before he spread his wings and launched himself upwards. 

He flew upwards, and over the Temple of Aten, and the workshops, before coming to a stop midair above the Palace gardens. There were two guards patrolling, one on either side of the square pond. Then, hovering, he counted the steps of the guards below. _One, two, three_, _turn -_

The hawk-nosed guard turned at the end of his route, untucked his shendyt, and began to relieve himself against the garden wall.

On the other side of the pond, the pot-bellied guard dropped his spear and bent down to pick it up.

Aziraphale dove down into the shrubbery beneath the Pharaoh’s window, and threw a rock from the ground into the reflecting pool in the middle of the garden. The guards on either side of him started at the splash. The hawk-nosed guard tucked his kilt back in, and the pot-bellied guard picked up his spear cautiously. Then they both stalked away from Aziraphale.

The angel hauled himself up through the window of the study. 

He’d expected it empty, but instead, the Pharaoh sat at his desk. One of the demonic scrolls was unrolled, and a sheaf of papyrus lay next to it, covered with notes. Aziraphale could feel the Pharaoh’s aura rolling off of him in waves. It tasted like the wake of a lightning bolt, sharp and clean and metallic, and distinctly inhuman. 

“You’re a demon,” accused Aziraphale.

“And you’re my Chief Scribe,” said the Pharaoh, mockingly. “I thought I recognized you swooping around on that hilltop, Principality.” 

“Who are you, and what have you done to Akhenaten?” demanded Aziraphale.

“I am Razikael, and he invited me in,” said the Pharaoh, with a shrug. 

“He was probably trying to summon the Aten, not _you_,” said Aziraphale.

“Well, he’s not complaining,” said Razikael. “Did you want to talk to him?” 

“Yes, please,” said Aziraphale. 

The Pharaoh’s eyes lit up with fervour, and when he opened his mouth, a different voice came out. “A ray of the Aten is within me,” he declared. “I am a vessel for his life-giving light. With the light he has granted me, I shall carry out his will across the land! It is I who shall bring crops to fruition, I who shall nourish the river, and I who shall bring justice to the people!”

“I’ve heard enough,” said Aziraphale. “A ray of the Aten - really?” 

Razikael’s eyes twinkled in the Pharaoh’s face again. “Technically speaking, we are all His children, and thus, the rays of His light,” she said. “And before you ask, the Pharaoh was already like this when I got here.” She waved her finger in a circle around the Pharaoh’s ear, in the universal gesture for _wacko_.

“Did Crowley put you up to this?”

“That demon who calls himself a priest of Aten?” said Razikael sardonically. “Hardly. Akhenaten saw the light before his time. The demon suggested, at some point, that perhaps others might benefit from Akhenaten's revelations. But he never thought that Akhenaten was a true believer, or imagined that the Pharaoh would dare to relocate the capital. He ought to work on his foresight. And he also ought to shielding himself better.” Razikael sniffed. “The demon projects his emotions like a lighthouse.” 

Aziraphale stared. This was not how he’d expected the meeting to go. “Might you - stop the loops, perhaps?” he asked. “Please?”

“Stop?” Razikael asked, and cocked her head. “No. This is the culmination of decades of research.” 

“You can’t possibly accomplish anything meaningful on a Tuesday afternoon,” said Aziraphale. 

“Well, of course I didn’t mean to redo _only_ Tuesday afternoon,” said Razikael. “Eventually I’ll be able to travel even further upstream in the timeflow. And then I’ll be able to -” she took a breath. “I’ll be able to correct injustices that Heaven has wrought.” 

“What injustices?” said Aziraphale. “It’s all part of the Plan. Heaven doesn’t _do_ injustice. That’s your lot’s job.” 

“You’d think so,” said Razikael. “But you can’t say they dispense their justice in a strictly commensurate manner, either. Not to mention, it’s very _damn first, ask questions later. _The Fall. Original Sin. Cain.” She ticked each one off on a finger. 

“It was all part of the Plan,” whispered Aziraphale.

“You wouldn’t know that, would you?” said Razikael, and then she shrugged. “The plan is, as Heaven says, _ineffable_.” 

“Most of them had it coming. At least a little bit,” rationalized Aziraphale.

“I see you’re still an adherent to the party line, Principality,” said Razikael. 

“Well,” said Aziraphale. “It doesn’t matter what I believe. You’ve got to let everyone go on to Wednesday.” 

“You wouldn’t have even noticed if you hadn’t interfered,” she said. “You’d just live each day, happily cocooned in your little world of papyrus. We would all have been better off.” 

“How far back do you need to go, anyway?” 

“Far enough to make things right,” said Razikael. "Maybe a few years. Maybe a few centuries. Or all the way back to the Fall, if that’s what it takes.” 

“Is the Fall the _injustice_ you’re trying to correct?” said Aziraphale, horrified. “It was the path they chose. You can’t just - go back and make them choose another one. I won’t let you.” 

“You won’t _let_ me?” said Razikael. She laughed, a beautiful sparkling sound. “What if _this_ was His plan all along?” 

The theology confused Aziraphale deeply. “This can’t be right,” he repeated. “I can’t let you do this -” 

“Principality, you don’t know _how_ I’m doing this,” said Razikael. 

That was true enough, but he had an idea. A ritual was still a ritual, after all. They were tied to the blood of the caster. He’d hoped not to pull Akhenaten into this, but there was always collateral damage in the plans of Heaven - just look at Job’s family, or Abel, or even the Fallen - 

He pulled a dagger from the sheath on his waist, and drove it into the Pharaoh’s chest. She staggered, and then sagged forward into Aziraphale’s arms, grabbing at his tunic with both hands to stay upright.

“Listen -” she gurgled. “Listen!” Aziraphale turned his ear to her mouth. “This far you may come -” she whispered, blood staining his tunic with every word “- but no farther.”

Then the Pharaoh went limp, the ghost of a self-satisfied smile gracing her lips.

The sun was still high in the sky, but brightness enveloped Aziraphale nonetheless.

∽⧗∼

“I don’t see what the problem is,” said Crowley.

“Oh, no,” said Aziraphale, feeling lightheaded. _It should have worked, why didn’t it work? _

“The economy is booming. The Kingdom’s at peace. A bit of monotheism never hurt anybody,” Crowley continued. 

“I’ve got to go,” said Aziraphale, and he ran for the Palace, sandals kicking up dust in his wake.

“We’ll talk later,” yelled Crowley. 

∽⧖∼ 

Aziraphale stood in his study at the Records Hall, and drew a circle on the ground. He didn’t bother with drawing the interior circle, nor any of the focus-scripts, nor even the candles. He tore up a cattle inventory, scattered a baker’s half-dozen around the edges of the circle, and lit them on fire with a breath. 

He didn’t need Head Office to believe that the time loop was happening. Only that something had gone terribly wrong in the great Plan, and that a demon had taken up residence in the Pharaoh’s body. And with renewed hope, he spoke the Words. 

A blue beam of light dropped down from somewhere beyond the ceiling of his study, and he heard a familiar voice, only a bit distorted by the shoddiness of the circle. 

“Hello, you have reached the office of the Voice of God. We are sorry that we are not available to take your call right now. Please leave a message after the tone.” 

A chime sounded, maddeningly crisp. 

“Is it still Tuesday up there?” Aziraphale called. “Hello? Can you hear me?” 

Silence. 

“I have reason to believe that the Pharaoh’s been possessed by a _very powerful_ demon, and I need assistance performing exorcising it. I haven’t filled out form X-350a for backup or the X-354 requisition form for equipment, but _time is of the essence here_.”

More silence. 

“Look, if you don’t respond then the demon is going to do _unspeakable harm_ to the country, and who knows what that’ll do to the execution of our Plan, I know it’s in a very delicate place right now, with the Chosen People being where they are and all -” 

“The length of your message has reached its temporal limit,” said the voice again. 

“Hold on, I’m not done -” said Aziraphale. 

“Your call is very important to us.” 

“- don’t you_ dare_ hang up on me again -” 

“We will respond within five business days.”

And the blue beam narrowed on itself until it was a thin shaft shining down from the heavens, and then it was nothing at all. 

∽⧗∼

Once again, Aziraphale hovered over the palace gardens, counting the steps of the guards. One turned to urinate against the wall. The other dropped his spear. Aziraphale dropped out of the air into a bush, tossed a rock into the reflecting pool to distract the guards, and vaulted over the windowsill, into the Pharaoh’s study. 

The Pharaoh sat the desk, studying a scroll. This time, he was flanked by two guards. 

“As I told you, Principality,” said Razikael, looking up. “This far you may come, but no farther.” Then, to the guards, she said, “Grab him.” 

The guards advanced on Aziraphale. 

Aziraphale tried to reach out with his powers to stop them in their tracks, or turn them against the Pharaoh, until he absolutely glowed with the effort. It was to no avail. His power slid over them, like water over glass. The guards grabbed Aziraphale’s arms and dragged him forwards to Razikael. 

“No miraculous escapes for you,” said Razikael. 

“Why not?” asked Aziraphale, trying to struggle against the burly grip of the guards. 

“The guards are under my protection,” she informed him. 

“All of them?” challenged Aziraphale. 

She shrugged. “Enough of them to matter.” 

“Well, you don’t need them here, I’m just here to talk,” said Aziraphale.

“Last time you came to talk, you cut the Pharaoh’s throat,” she said mildly. She stood up and paced across the study. “You ended the loop prematurely, but there was no lasting harm done.” 

Aziraphale said nothing, but gathered up his powers to try to smite Razikael out of the Pharaoh’s body as she approached. The air shifted like an approaching storm. 

Then the back of the Pharaoh’s hand struck Aziraphale’s face. He saw stars and lost control of the power he had been gathering. The heaviness in the air dissipated abruptly, like fog in a swift wind. “We’ve talked enough already. I have no personal quarrel with you, but you _are_ disrupting my work.”

“Well, I’m very sorry to interrupt,” said Aziraphale. He tasted blood in his mouth, and felt a few loose teeth on the side where Razikael had hit him. “You’ve got tomorrow to work on it too, and the day after.” 

“This is exactly what I meant,” she said. “You talk too much.”

“I just want to understand why you’re doing this -” 

“- so that we can debate morality and theology, and so you can somehow convince me not to undertake whatever dastardly change to the timeline I’ve planned,” said Razikael. “Unfortunately, Principality, I’m not interested in debate.” She sniffed the air, and the corners of her mouth quirked upwards in a strange, sad smile. “Least of all with you. For all your time on Earth, you still love Heaven best. You are lucky in that way, Principality.”

Aziraphale’s head was spinning and he searched for ways to convince her to repent and end the time loop, but the only thing that came to mind was, “Please, just -” 

“I allow you a quick death for this trespass, but afterwards -” she smiled, showing teeth. “I don’t know if it was Heaven or Hell that created pain. Maybe they created it together, in their conflict. Or maybe it has existed ever since our Father breathed life into this world. But I do know that humans have long surpassed them all in devising new ways to inflict pain on a body.”

Razikael unsheathed a silvery knife from her belt, and crossed the room to where Aziraphale stood, straining in the guards’ grips. “So, consider this a kindness,” she said, softly. With one hand, she yanked his head back by his hair. With the other, she slashed the blade across Aziraphale’s throat. 

Aziraphale didn’t register the pain so much as the struggle to breathe. He thrashed weakly in the guard’s arms, soaking the parchment on the Pharaoh’s desk with blood. Faces flittered across the edges of his vision, Crowley and the Vizier and the messenger, their lips forming words that were drowned out by the roar of his heartbeat in his ears as he struggled to stem the tide from his throat. “Razikael,” he tried to croak from his crushed throat, but it came out as creaking groan. 

“May we not meet again, Principality,” she said. “For your own sake.” Then the Pharaoh’s study spun away into darkness, and he felt the inexorable pull upwards once again. 

∽⧖∼ 

The afternoon after that, Aziraphale was shot by no fewer than three different guards from the palace roof before he could even land in the Pharaoh’s garden. He fell through the air, and landed with an almighty splash in the garden pond. Aziraphale thrashed around like a drowning chicken, as he tried to simultaneously heal his wounds and keep water out of his lungs.

Finally, he got his bearings and swam to the edge of the pool, half-blind from the water in his eyes. He hauled himself out, tunic dripping, to come face-to-face with three guards. _There were only two before_, he realized. And none of them were the hawk-nosed fellow who had relieved himself the afternoon previous, nor the pot-bellied one who had dropped his spear. _She’s randomizing the guard rotation. _

The tallest guard - a giant of a man - speared Azirapahle with a polearm that should have been used for hunting elephants. The angel fell backwards into the pool. He tried to heal, but he couldn’t with a wooden haft protruding from his stomach, while his airways were filling with water again. Aziraphale’s body sank downwards into the bloody fish pond, and the rest of him ascended gracelessly into the lobby of Heaven. 

“Blimey,” said the janitor. 

“You don’t have to say it every time,” said Aziraphale. 

“Well, you don’t have to keep on coming on up here,” said the janitor. He rested the mop in the bucket. 

“I’m not coming up on purpose,” snapped Aziraphale. But then the full weight of what the janitor had said hit him. “You know the day’s been repeating too!” he shouted. 

“Cor, you’ve got me,” said the janitor, sounding completely unbothered. 

“You’ve just been mopping this whole time - you could go up with me, help me convince Gabriel that I’m not nuts -” 

“I’m mopping the floor because that’s what I need to be doing,” said the janitor. Then, suddenly serious, he said, “Gabriel will never believe you. He’s a fine lad. Follows the Plan to the letter and then files his paperwork perfectly. But the vagaries of time are beyond him.”

“Well, it’s not just Gabriel, we could go to someone else, like Michael -” 

“The best commander of the Army that I could ask for,” said the janitor. “But she’s never met a problem she couldn’t stab to death. And as you’ve discovered, stabbing doesn’t work very well for this particular problem, hm?” 

“How did you know -” began Aziraphale, and then something clicked, and he looked at the janitor in newfound horror. His eyes were not brown, as Aziraphale had assumed, but simultaneously every eye colour in existence and none of them at all. “Are you -” 

“I will neither confirm nor deny,” said the janitor, with a paternal twinkle in his eye. 

“Why -” began Aziraphale. 

“Like I said,” said the janitor, kindly. “What if it’s part of the Plan?” 

“The Plan doesn’t make sense!” wailed Aziraphale. “You can’t possibly be planning to _let_ Razikael undo the Fall!” 

“Not to worry. Time will go back to normal, sooner or later. Probably later. And, being the only one of two people on Earth who’s aware that the wheels are off the trolley...” the janitor trailed off, and looked at Aziraphale, expectantly. 

“I could use a bit of help, please,” said Aziraphale. 

“Look, you don’t need help from Heaven.” said the janitor. He sighed. “None of the angels here can help. This is a task for you.” 

“At least give me a hint about what to do -” 

“Lad, you couldn’t take a hint if it got up in front of you and recited poetry,” said the janitor. “And to be frank, I’ve given you so many hints today that you’re going to need to forget most of it by sundown.” 

“Why bother telling me any of it then?” said Aziraphale.

“I said you’d forget _most of it_, not _all of it_,” said the janitor. “Enough to retain some sort of free will. But not so much that you keep coming up here every day.”

“But -” 

“Oh, would you just _look_ at the time,” said the janitor, airily. 

“It’s not even close to sunset,” protested Aziraphale. 

“Is it?” said the janitor. “Time certainly flies.” 

He snapped his fingers, and the Earth in the lobby spun faster, until Egypt fell into shadow and green light flooded Heaven yet again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that brings us to the end of Act 1!
> 
> This chapter title brought to you by the time I read the Da Vinci code as a teenager and thought it was the deepest thing ever.


	5. Window of Opportunity

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aziraphale gets help.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The last two chapters were my _Edge of Tomorrow_ homage. This one is my _Stargate SG-1_ homage. Thanks again to my betas SilchasRuin and GraphiteGirl for wrangling all the commas and the dialogue.

“I don’t see what the problem is,” said Crowley.

Aziraphale blinked stupidly in the sunlight. He’d just been in Heaven, arguing with the janitor. Somewhere along the way, he’d come to the inescapable conclusion that nobody in Heaven remembered the loops, or was willing to help him stop the Pharaoh. 

Aziraphale had always believed that good would triumph over evil, thanks to the unwavering leadership of his order. Gabriel usually deigned to send backup or resources when necessary. Like the Sodom-and-Gomorrah incident. Granted, the backup had been Sandalphon, but they’d sent backup nonetheless.

Well, they were as unwavering as ever. They were unwavering in their belief that nothing was amiss, even as they lived Tuesday afternoon over and over. 

No backup was coming this time. He was on his own. Wild desperation welled up in his chest. 

“The problem is,” said Aziraphale, “that this goes _all the way up_.”

“The economy is booming - wait, what?”

“All of Heaven is affected,” ranted Aziraphale.

“Well, of course a bit of monotheism might actually benefit your side,” continued Crowley warily. 

“Nobody remembers the last two weeks. It’s like they never happened!”

“What the Hell are you talking about?”

“I’m _talking_ about the breakdown of the natural order of time! The unravelling of all creation!”

“The Pharaoh’s just one guy, angel,” said Crowley, now with a touch of concern. “He’s not going to unravel the fabric of the universe.”

“The end of the world is _exactly_ what I’m talking about, Crowley!” said Aziraphale. 

“It’s a bit early for the apocalypse, isn’t it? Can’t birth the Antichrist before the Christ.” 

Aziraphale tried to speak as calmly as he could under the circumstances, which wasn’t very calm at all. “Crowley. Listen. There might never be another Wednesday in all of eternity.” 

Crowley threw his arm around Aziraphale’s shoulder. “How about we talk about this over a spot of lunch?”

The demon’s relaxed manner threw Aziraphale into a panic again. “What harm could it possibly do at this point?” Aziraphale howled at the crocodiles. The crocodiles howled back. Crowley took Aziraphale’s arm and nearly dragged him away from the river before the angel could rile up the ibises too.

“There’s a nice little tavern here, one foot in front of the other, angel,” said Crowley soothingly.

Aziraphale let the demon guide him through the doorway of a crowded mud-brick establishment and onto a wooden stool at a low table. Crowley sat opposite to him, and snapped his fingers. A waiter materialized nearby with a jug of beer and two clay cups. Crowley poured the both of them drinks. “Now, slowly, tell me what’s going on.”

Aziraphale coughed and tried to collect himself, to find the best words and gently ease Crowley into the new paradigm. He did not succeed. “We’re all stuck in a time loop!”

“Off to a great start,” muttered Crowley to himself. “Here. Drink up, angel.” He passed a cup to Aziraphale. 

Aziraphale complied. The beer tasted sweet in his mouth. “Heaven is stuck in the time loop too, nobody remembers what happened yesterday -”

“No, start at the beginning, angel,” said Crowley.

Aziraphale pulled himself together and recounted the first day.

“- and then there was a flash of light, and I was standing on the riverbank again.”

“Hmm,” said Crowley, thoughtfully. “When I skipped the stone on the river, how many skips did I manage?”

“Twelve,” said Aziraphale. “But what does that -” 

“Yessss!” hissed Crowley, and punched his fist in the air. “I knew I could do twelve.” At Aziraphale’s confused look, he said, “My record is eleven.”

“_That’s_ what matters to you?”

“We all have things we can be proud of,” said Crowley.

“Good thing you’ve got the skipping stones, then, because you haven’t got much else,” said Aziraphale, but the fight had gone out of him.

“Touche, angel,” said Crowley, clapping a hand to his chest in mock agony. “So, what are you going to do about this - loop?”

“I don’t know,” admitted Aziraphale. “The Pharaoh’s possessed by a demon, there are demonic scrolls floating around in his private library, which I can’t get into -”

“Demonic scrolls, you say? Let me have a look,” said Crowley.

Aziraphale rooted around in his leather bag, and remembered that he hadn’t acquired it yet in this loop. “Oh, no. The messenger must still have it, he delivers it every afternoon to the Records Hall -”

“Suppose we’ll have to get it, then,” said Crowley lazily.

“Who’s _we_?” asked Aziraphale.

“Ugh,” said Crowley. “_We_ means _you _and _I_. As in, _you and _I are going to get the scroll. Together.” 

“It’ll be a few hours until the messenger delivers it to the Records Hall,” said Aziraphale.

“It was delivered from somewhere, right?” said Crowley. “I’m going to help you find the scroll. Maybe next time around you won’t have to wait for the messenger to take his sweet time getting to the Records Hall.”

“Why would you help me?” asked Aziraphale suspiciously.

“It’s a shame to see one’s opposition in such a state,” said Crowley. “A bit like punching down.” 

“Ah,” said Aziraphale. That sounded plausible. “Tally-ho, then.”

Crowley made a noise somewhere between laughter and disapproval. Then the angel and the demon left the tavern together. Neither of them paid the bill.

∽⧗∼

“The messenger said it came off the last barge,” said Aziraphale. He sat on a wooden barrel, scanning the harbour.

“Anytime now,” said Crowley. He lay on the pier, basking in the sunlight. His sandaled feet dangled into the water, and he kicked little sprays of water at nothing in particular. 

“I think it’s over there,” said the angel. He pointed to the south.

A long, wooden boat with a half-dozen oars on each side floated down the Nile. The sail was folded.

A few minutes later, it pulled up to a free dock. One of the harbourmaster’s assistants caught a rope that a sailor threw over the side of the barge, and tied it to a post. Two sailors lowered the gangplank, and others began unloading the cargo.

“Let’s check that one,” said Aziraphale. 

“How do you know it’s that one?” said Crowley. 

“I don’t,” said Aziraphale irritably. “But getting the scroll from the boat was your idea. So unless you’ve got other suggestions about which boat has the scroll, we’ll need to search them all.” 

“Don’t get your underthings in a knot, angel,” said Crowley. 

The two of them strode down the pier. “You,” Aziraphale commanded the captain. “Is there a shipment here for the Records Hall?”

“What’s it to you?” said the captain.

“I am the head scribe of the Pharaoh,” said Aziraphale.

“I don’t know no head scribe,” said the captain.

Crowley snapped his fingers. “Yes, you do.”

“Ergh,” said the captain, and waved towards a storage chest on the deck of the barge. “That one’ll be yours, then, Master Scribe.”

“Thank you,” said Aziraphale. He undid the string holding the lid closed on the chest, slid the lid off, and dug through it until he felt the unmistakable thrum of power of the scroll. “Have the rest delivered posthaste to the Records Hall.”

“Yep,” said the captain agreeably.

Crowley and Aziraphale stepped off the barge. “Best we don’t open it here,” said Aziraphale. “In case any guards see. The Pharaoh’s probably got them searching the city for the scroll.” 

Crowley shrugged. “Your place or mine?”

Aziraphale shuddered at the thought of stepping foot in a demon’s domain. Who knew what horrors it contained? It was undoubtedly a den of wretchedness and squalor. “Mine, I should think.”

∽⧖∼ 

Aziraphale lived in a small, stone-faced house in the North City. He didn’t think it would do any harm if the demon knew where he lived, since he’d just forget the next loop anyway.

“This is a hovel, not a house,” said Crowley. Off of the entrance hall there were two rooms. The smaller one was once a bedroom, but was now furnished with nought but storage chests and shelves. The larger room, which might have served as a combined kitchen and living room for mortal inhabitants, was the only one with actual furniture, boasting a table, a chair, and a low couch. Both rooms were crammed with scrolls and folios. It was admittedly not as lavish as Aziraphale’s previous house in Thebes, which boasted a covered rooftop space, and significantly more storage space. However, Akhetaten had been raised from the dust a mere four years prior, so he hadn’t had a lot of choice when it came to available accommodations. There was always the option of materializing extra rooms from the firmament, but Aziraphale thought he should make some effort to fit in with the rest of the neighbourhood.

“Silence, demon,” said Aziraphale. He swept some of the other scrolls off the table into a basket, freeing up a work-surface for the two of them. Then he unrolled the demonic scroll. “Here,” he said. “Recognize any of this?”

Crowley whistled. “Bless, angel. Where’d you find this?”

“The messenger missed it in the shipment,” said Aziraphale. “It was intended for the Pharaoh’s library.” 

“He has a Hell of a library, then,” said Crowley. “You must be dying to get in there.”

“As a matter of fact, I did. Repeatedly. Can you read it or not?” demanded Aziraphale.

“I could, but it’d take me - weeks, I think. It’s a very old script.”

Aziraphale groaned. “We haven’t got weeks, demon. We have four hours, at the most.”

“Then what happens?” 

“Well, the green light goes off at sunset, then it’s midday today again.” 

“You’d better help out, then,” said Crowley. He picked up a reed brush from Aziraphale’s scraggly collection standing upright in a mug. “Can I write on the scroll?” he asked hopefully.

Writing directly on the original copy of a document went against all of Aziraphale’s instincts, but this had been a rather unusual week and a half. “I suppose it’ll all come out tomorrow,” he said gloomily. “Don’t suppose you can tell if it’s got _anything_ to do with the Pharaoh’s ritual before we start translating?”

“No,” said Crowley. He squinted at the text. “I mean, I can’t tell if it _doesn’t_ have instructions for the Pharaoh’s ritual. But for all I know, it could be Beelzebub’s personal diary. Or her grocery shopping list.”

“That’s wonderful,” said Aziraphale. 

“Well. We’d better get started then, hm?” said Crowley. “This first word could mean _mastery_ or _master, _or maybe _usage_, or maybe that next squiggle is part of the word too? Then it would be _maker._”

Aziraphale groaned again. 

It was going to be a very long afternoon. 

∽⧗∼ 

Aziraphale sat beside Crowley at the table, trying to stay patient. It had been at least a week since the two of them had first gotten the scroll from the barge. So far, they’d made it two paragraphs in, out of about twelve, and determined with some certainty that the document was an experiment log of sorts, written by the demon who had first devised the time ritual. 

“This paragraph begins with something about a snake -” said Crowley, tentatively. 

“We’ve covered that one already,” said Aziraphale, wearily. “It was a note about what kind of oviparous animal made the best sacrifice for the ritual. The author started out with chickens, which weren’t powerful enough, and then falcons, which were more powerful than chickens but didn’t have enough inherent symbolism, and finally snakes, because they’re associated with wisdom, rebirth, the cyclical nature of time and - oh, come off it,” he sighed at Crowley, who was looking prouder and prouder by the moment. “By this point in the research, the author was experimenting with larger and larger snakes. It turns out that the size of the snake doesn’t matter. Only that it was a snake.” 

“Because all snakes are magnificent creatures associated with _wisdom_,” said Crowley, a grin still plastered on his face.

“Wisdom? I invented _books_, demon. If any of us embodies wisdom, it’s me, and you’re just a snake who’s vaguely associated with wisdom,” said Aziraphale. 

But it was too late. This had happened last loop, too. Crowley had finished translating the note about the animal sacrifices, and then smiled so hard that Aziraphale had wondered if the demon had found a way to end the ritual. He had not, but Crowley had been completely insufferable for the rest of that loop. 

“Nuh-uh,” said Crowley. “Not to mention that snakes represent _rebirth_, the _cyclical nature of time_, and we’re more powerful than _falcons_. Winged busybodies flying high in the sky, lording it over everyone else.” He looked meaningfully at Aziraphale. 

“No,” said Aziraphale. “Look, a demon wrote this. The author is clearly biased against -” 

“Chickens,” said Crowley. “The author is biased against chickens.” 

“Fine. Chickens,” said Aziraphale. “And snakes have _symbolic_ value. Can we please get back on track?” 

“You must have been truly desperate, to come to me for help,” said Crowley. 

“I was,” said Aziraphale. “This is torture.”

“You haven’t been to Hell lately, have you?” asked Crowley, suddenly serious. 

“Of course not,” said Aziraphale. “I’d probably burn up the moment I crossed the threshold.” 

“It’s not actually all brimstone and sulphur. We’ve renovated.” 

“Since when?”

“Oh, must have been a few centuries ago,” said Crowley, lightly. “Sometime between the last two times you smited me out of my body. We’ve fixed the HVAC now. Mostly. The electrical and plumbing are still on the fritz, but that’s just the way the Facilities Coordinator likes it.” 

“So, no more lakes of hellfire?” said Aziraphale, morbidly curious. 

“We’ve got those too, but they’re kind of ornamental now, y’know? It’s good feng shui. Brightens up the landscape. And the Centre of Unsustainable Torment is right under the lakes. The Centre has glass ceilings, so they use the lake as illumination. Pretty nifty design,” said Crowley. 

“You go there often, then?” 

“Nah, too noisy. There’s a lot of screaming from the damned,” said Crowley. “But it’s better than when they stop screaming. Once they’ve gone silent, we just kind of stand them up next to each other in the closets.” He was silent for a moment. “Does a number on you, after a while.”

“Oh,” said Aziraphale. He’d never thought about what Hell sounded like.

“It’s always seemed unfair,” said Crowley. “Eternity is a Hell of mandatory minimum sentence.” 

“I’m sure it’s part of the Plan,” said Aziraphale uncomfortably. “And that they had it coming.” 

“Sure they did,” said Crowley. “There’s just - so many of them down there. It seems like most of them they never had a chance. How can they make decisions about their eternal souls when they barely know what they’re going to eat for lunch next week, or whether or not they’ll be able to eat at all?”

“There’s good, and there’s evil. It’s not hard to tell the difference.” 

“Not for you, angel,” said Crowley. “But these humans have got a lot of extenuating circumstances. Do you know, most of them die before they hit forty years old? But their brains aren’t even fully developed until they’re twenty-five!” 

“Well,” said Aziraphale, “Head office is drafting some directives to help with that. It’s going to have things like _thou shalt not kill_.” 

“No shit,” said Crowley. “But what about self-defence, or in war?” 

“That part is implied,” said Aziraphale. 

“No, it’s not. How about adding a footnote? Or are your sort too good for footnotes?” 

“That would undermine the key message. _Thou shalt not kill, unless he really had it coming._” 

“You’re doing it too,” said Crowley. “What’s _really had it coming_ supposed to mean?” 

“Look, just because you can’t tell the difference between right and wrong doesn’t mean nobody else can,” said Aziraphale 

“Good thing you’re the angel, then,” said Crowley. “Must be so nice to be in touch with your organizational directives. What’s Heaven like nowadays?”

“Bright. Clean.” And then, because nobody would hold anything against him next loop, he added, “A bit dull.”

Crowley laughed. “Is that how you got the assignment for the Eastern Gate of Eden?”

“I didn’t request it, if that’s what you mean,” replied Aziraphale. 

“Well, Earth definitely beats downstairs,” said Crowley. “Can’t say if it’s better than upstairs, though. I don’t remember much of Heaven,” he added, wistfully. “Don’t remember much of anything before the Fall.”

Aziraphale felt torn between responding _I’m sorry you haven’t known the light of God for two thousand years_ and _I don’t remember you before the Fall but if you were anything like you are now you probably had it coming_. He settled for awkwardly splitting the difference. “Er, I’m sure there’s nothing up there you’d miss,” he said. 

“When’s the last time you were back?”

“A few weeks ago?” speculated Aziraphale.

“It wasn’t because I discorporated you, was it?”

“No, it was Razikael. And the loop. Which is, incidentally, why you’re here in my living room.”

“Ooh, yes,” said Crowley. “Thank you _so_ much for inviting me into your charming little hovel to slave over this scroll. Who knows what you’d do without me, probably drink yourself silly and weep uncontrollably -”

“I’m appreciative of your assistance,” said Aziraphale, stiffly. 

“You’re welcome,” said Crowley. “See, that wasn’t so hard, was it?” 

“This is what I’ve become,” said Aziraphale.

“Don’t be so dramatic, angel,” said Crowley. 

∽⧖∼

“We’ve been over this part,” said Aziraphale. “It describes the knife needed for the ritual. _The knife Mnemosyne, which was forged in the fires of hell and quenched in Lethe._ _She who is pierced by Mnemosyne retains her memory through the loops,” _recited Aziraphale. “Mnemosyne being a knife that the writer used previously for some kind of memory-recall ritual, which has been repurposed for this one. The writer added runes to the knife to, uh, try to extend the range of the ritual. It worked, but barely. The caster’s memory is not the bottleneck of the ritual.” 

“Oh, I know that one,” said Crowley. He scribbled madly on the parchment. “If we do this every day, why is it taking so long?”

“Well, we only make it through a few lines of text a day, and I’ve got to remember all the lines beforehand, and sometimes I forget so we’ve got to redo it -”

“And you’ve spent all this time shut up in this house?” 

“Well, in the beginning, I tried to talk to the demon in the Pharaoh who started all this, and got myself discorporated for my trouble,” said Aziraphale angrily. 

“Oh,” said Crowley. “Don’t suppose the Pharaoh mentioned what this was all for?” 

“Correcting a past injustice, she said.” 

“Hmm,” said Crowley. 

“Do you demons have a lot of injustices you want to correct?” 

Crowley looked thoughtful. “Hell’s justice is more of the retributive rather than restorative sort.” 

“I can imagine,” said Aziraphale. “But - have you personally got anything in your past you’d like to go back in time to fix?” He remembered Razikael’s vague threats about how far back she’d go. “Maybe your Fall?” 

“That’s a bit personal, don’t you think?” said Crowley. 

“I didn’t realize -” muttered Aziraphale. 

Crowley shrugged. “I try not to look back,” he said. “Spend too much time thinking about could-have-beens and should-bes and you’ll go mad.” He cleared his throat. “Speaking of which, it reminds me of where I’d heard of that knife before. One of the demons in Research and Development forged a knife that could let you look into your past. That was Mnemosyne.” 

“Research and Development?” 

“Well, mostly Rack and Dismemberment, they aren’t too innovative nowadays,” said Crowley. “But this was back then, when they were still discovering all the bits that you could take off a human soul without breaking it completely. And Mnemosyne was the knife that you could use to poke through all their painful memories. Head Office decided it was too much effort, eventually, and that the humans did a fine job of reliving their worst moments by themselves when they were left alone with nothing but their own thoughts for a few months. So Mnemosyne was mothballed. Until now, I suppose.” 

“It wasn’t Razikael who forged Mnemosyne, was it?” said Aziraphale. 

“Nah,” said Crowley. “Started with an L. Not Lucifer. Maybe Legion? Leviathan? Can’t recall.” 

“What happened to that demon?” said Aziraphale. 

“Don’t know,” said Crowley. “She requested field assignment a few centuries back. Probably still there.”

“Oh,” said Aziraphale.

“Honestly, angel,” huffed Crowley. “Do you know all ten million of your coworkers?” 

“No,” said Aziraphale sheepishly. “I don’t spend a lot of time at Head Office.” 

“Neither do I. Earth has more going for it.” 

Aziraphale coughed. “This miserable rock?” 

“Better food, better people, and better scenery. If you don’t like it, then request reassignment. I’m sure they’ll give you whatever desk job you want.” 

A desk job would certainly be more peaceful. Possibly too peaceful. He’d see the same faces, day in and day out. Whereas on Earth, he could comfort himself with the fact that any humans who annoyed him would drop dead within a half-century or so. It was both a blessing and a curse - he’d rather liked some humans, and some of the things they’d created. Enheduanna’s poetry and Hatshepsut’s trade networks were impressive legacies. 

The same could not be said of some of his coworkers. What had Sandalphon made to be proud of? Human-shaped pillars of salt did not count. 

“Eh,” said Aziraphale. “I could. But then who would thwart you? I’m needed here on Earth.” 

“Sure you are,” said Crowley. 

“I am,” insisted Aziraphale. “I’m the only one who’s been down here for as long as you have, and the only one with the field experience to foil your foul schemes, demon.”

Crowley fluttered a hand to his mouth in dismay. “Apparently, I have been seen right through,” he declared theatrically. “The enemy has thwarted me anew.” 

“Exactly,” said Aziraphale.

But Crowley wasn’t done yet. He stood up and posed dramatically, with a hand on his brow and the other stretched towards Aziraphale’s ceiling. “My failure fills my heart with burning pain, I cannot bring myself to try again! The sadness in my soul cannot be quelled - oh Beelzebub, recall me back to Hell! ” 

“No need to overdo it,” muttered Aziraphale. 

“Are you sure? I thought you liked poetry,” said Crowley. 

“I thought so too, until a few seconds ago,” said Aziraphale. “And you can’t go back to Hell until we’ve finished the translation.” 

“See,” said Crowley, smugly. “I too am needed right here in the field. For I can have the scroll’s secrets revealed.” 

“Shut up and get back to work,” said Aziraphale. But he smiled a little, regardless.

∽⧗∼ 

“So, most rituals involving blood are anchored in the blood of the caster, but this one has got an extra layer of protection to ensure its stability,” said Crowley. He squinted at his notes. “Normally, killing the caster and removing the _blood_ component would end the ritual, but you mentioned that the death of the Pharaoh only restarts the time loop. Which makes sense, because the caster is bound to end up in some shenanigans during the course of their temporal trek.”

“That’s lovely,” said Aziraphale. He worried one of several copies of the Book of the Dead in his house between his fingers, rolling and unrolling it compulsively. 

“So, uh, this particular ritual has a modification on it to tie the ritual to both the body and soul of the caster. If either one is compromised, then the loop restarts.” said Crowley. “Have you tried Holy Water yet, by the way?” 

“I haven’t had the chance,” said Aziraphale. “The Pharaoh’s guards discorporate me before I can get close enough, anymore.” 

“Hmm,” said Crowley. “Probably best if you don’t try. I think the ritual structure might be robust enough that even total destruction of the caster by Holy Water wouldn’t compromise the stability of the loop.” 

“That’s excellent. We’ve found another way that we can’t use to break out of the loop.” said Aziraphale. “I’m telling you, Crowley, if I don’t break out of the loop soon, I’m going to lose it.” The integrity of the papyrus in Aziraphale’s hands failed then, and the Book of the Dead was rent in two. 

“Er,” said Crowley. “What do you mean?” 

“I’m going to lose it,” repeated Aziraphale, and he began to tear the papyrus scroll into small pieces. “Go barmy. Come unhinged. Cede possession of one’s faculties. Be three scrolls short of a library. Wacko!” With that outburst, he tore the stack of little papyrus squares in half and threw them into the air, where they burst into flame. 

The flaming papyrus fragments fell onto the table around the angel and the demon. “Uh,” Crowley said. “Really?” 

“Really,” said Aziraphale. He took out the knife from his scribe kit, meant to trim and shape reed brushes, and applied it to another copy of the Book of the Dead. 

Crowley watched Aziraphale stab at the parchment in front of him. “Maybe you ought to take a break,” he said. 

“I can’t take a break,” said Aziraphale. “Evil doesn’t take breaks.” 

“Evil is taking a break in front of you right now,” said Crowley. 

“This doesn’t count. You’re stuck in the time loop.” 

“And since you’ve been so kind as to enlighten me that I am indeed stuck in the loop for the rest of the foreseeable future, I should be treating this beautiful Tuesday afternoon as the opportunity that it is, rather than translating this blasted scroll for you,” said Crowley. 

“I don’t see how this is an opportunity at all,” said Aziraphale. He continued stabbing at the parchment in front of him. 

“If everything is just going to reset tomorrow - maybe you could, y’know, lighten up a bit. Take a break. Do anything you want, without worrying about consequences,” said Crowley. 

Aziraphale unfolded the parchment in front of him. It was a chain of paper angels holding hands. He set them on fire as well. The little paper angels turned black and twisted under the flames. Then he glared at Crowley. “You’re suggesting I _take a break_ from thwarting the demon residing in the Pharaoh’s body, carrying on a sinister agenda to right wrongs unknown, using the powers of time?”

“It’s a known fact that humans are more productive if they’re provided with regular time off,” said Crowley. 

“Do you _know_ what could go wrong with time travel?” shouted Aziraphale. 

“When’s the last time you even slept?” said Crowley. 

“I’m not some human. I don’t need to sleep,” said Aziraphale.

“Well, you ought to try it out sometime. It does wondrous things to clear the mind,” said Crowley.

“An afternoon nap is not going to speed things up,” said Aziraphale.

“Try some other things, then,” said Crowley. “Mix up your routine a bit.” 

“And how would you suggest I do that?” said Aziraphale tightly. 

Crowley scratched his chin. “Well, you’ve been holed up in your hovel for the better part of a few weeks, and before then you were doing scribe things non-stop -” 

“Scribe things,” repeated Aziraphale. 

“Scribe things and angel things,” corrected Crowley. “Point is, you’ve been doing your job, and pretty much only your job for -” The demon’s eyes turned upwards, as if he were trying to calculate exactly how long Aziraphale had been doing scribe things and angel things, but failed utterly. “- for a long time,” he finished. 

“Well, you’ve been busy too,” said Aziraphale.

“Yeah,” said Crowley. “But I take breaks. And seeing as neither Heaven nor Hell has gained a foothold over this region, it’s safe to say that, in your particular case, working harder does _not_ translate to working smarter.” 

“But - my duties -” said Aziraphale.

“Come on,” said Crowley. “Do you think your scribes do scribe things after they leave the Records Hall too? I guarantee they spend all their time off the clock trying very hard not to think about scribe things.” 

Aziraphale wrinkled his brow. “Is that why they’re so _slow_?” he said. 

“No,” said Crowley. “They’re slow because scribe things are boring.”

Before Aziraphale could protest, Crowley added, “But that’s not the point. The point is that you need a break, or else you’ll go mental.” 

“Fine,” said Aziraphale. “Got any suggestions?” 

“Loads,” said Crowley. “Like I said, this Tuesday is a prime opportunity for taking chances! Making mistakes!”

“That sounds terribly messy,” said Aziraphale. He stood up and drew himself to his full height, which was somewhat less than that of the demon’s, defeating the purpose of standing up altogether. “Integrity is doing the right thing even when it doesn’t matter.” 

“Look, I’m not saying that you should go full Abimelech and go murdering left and right,” said Crowley. “Just try some things you might not otherwise. Maybe extreme sports. Knowing you, that means _catching up on a bit of light reading_.” His voice rose in pitch at the end, in a crude imitation of the angel’s speech. 

“Oh, that’s not so bad,” said Aziraphale. “Is that what you’d do if you were trapped in the loop?” 

“Light reading?” Crowley laughed. “Unlike you, angel, I don’t lack imagination.” 

His expression was light, yet there was a heaviness in his voice. But before Aziraphale could ask what Crowley had meant, the green light wiped his living room away again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. I have corrected Chapter 1 so Aziraphale does get nicked with the knife.  
2\. Pretty much everyone in ancient Egypt drinks beer. It's sort of like Mudder's Milk. More of a food than a drink.  
3\. The janitor wasn't kidding when he said Aziraphale couldn't take a hint if it got up in front of you and recited poetry.


	6. Liar's Dice

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aziraphale's day(s) off, part 1.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The author is back from vacation and will resume a semi-regular posting schedule.

“I don’t see what the problem is,” said Crowley.

“Of course you don’t,” said Aziraphale wearily. 

“Why would I? The economy is booming. The Kingdom’s at peace.”

“Suppose it’s not so bad, given the circumstances.” 

“Circumstances? What other circumstances? Your people aren’t up to something up there, are they?” said Crowley. He bent down to the riverbank and picked up a small, flat stone.

“Nothing you need to worry about,” said Aziraphale, vaguely. He stared at the crocodiles and the ibises in the middle distance. _They_ weren’t worried, either. Nobody was, except him. He was wearing himself out with the translations for nothing. Maybe Crowley had been right in the last loop. Maybe he ought to calm down and take a day off. 

“They’re always up to something,” said Crowley. He threw the stone into the river, and watched it skip twelve times. “Oho, a record.”

“Teach me how to do that,” said Aziraphale, suddenly. 

“Do what?” asked Crowley, blankly.

“That thing with the rocks,” said Aziraphale. “Teach me,” he repeated. Then he picked up a rock from the riverbank and tossed it into the water, to illustrate. The rock disappeared beneath the surface and sank, just as one might expect a rock to. 

“Oh,” said Crowley, in surprise. “Well. Uh. First, you’ve got to pick a proper rock, right? It’s got to be flat, and fit in your hand. Not too big, or too small. Something like this.” He scrounged along the riverbank until he found a suitable example, and gave it to Aziraphale. “Then it’s in the wrist. You’ve got to give it a proper bit of rotation, right? Use your body, and your arm. Pretend its a discus or something. And then you just plant your feet and kind of - give it a good spin - “ 

He bent in on himself and twisted, flinging the stone out. Aziraphale counted five skips and then tried to imitate Crowley’s movements.

He’d barely wound himself up when the demon groaned and said, “Oh, no, angel, you’ve got it all wrong, you’ve got to bend like _this_ and then fling it out like _this -” _He stood behind Aziraphale and put his hands on the angel’s elbow to gently correct his stance.

“Right, don’t let go of it now - but you turn like _this_ and then extend your arm as you turn, like _this_ -” 

He twisted his body behind the angel, and guided Aziraphale to follow suit.

“- and then that’s when you let go of the stone. Here, let’s try again.” 

Crowley handed another flat, rounded stone to Aziraphale. The angel did his best to remember how Crowley’s body had moved, and tried to replicate it. He flung the stone from his fingers and it struck the surface of the river - then, buoyed by the impact and its own momentum, it leapt up in a little arc before striking the water a second time, and sinking for good. 

“Yes!” said Crowley, startling Aziraphale with a hearty clap on the shoulder. “The first one’s always the hardest,” he added. “But it’s just downhill from here. Pretty soon you’ll be able to get to two skips, and then three. Which should be enough to impress children. Beyond a half-dozen, though, you’ve got to work at it. Do you know how long it took for me to get from eleven to twelve skips?” 

“No,” said Aziraphale. “Do share.” 

“Three months,” burst out the demon. “Three months!” 

The excitement in his voice was so much that Aziraphale couldn’t help but nod and agree. “Twelve is quite an accomplishment,” he said. A small, shrill voice in the back of his mind screamed, _don’t encourage the demon_. It sounded a lot like Gabriel. Aziraphale squashed the voice flat and continued, “Yes, it’s an accomplishment worth celebrating. Tavern?”

Crowley peered at Aziraphale, but he succumbed to temptation eventually. “Why not?” he said, with only a trace of suspicion in his voice. 

∽⧖∼

They went to the same tavern near the riverbank, but this time, Aziraphale picked a table outdoors, in the small courtyard. A wooden trellis strewn with grapevines shaded the courtyard from the worst of the sun. Two men played dice at the table beside him. 

Crowley arrived with two mugs of beer. “Hankering an itch to play, angel?” 

“No,” said Aziraphale. “Head office frowns on gambling.”

“But you _have_ played?” said Crowley. He sat down opposite of Aziraphale. 

“Of course not,” said Aziraphale. But then he added, “Except when duty called for it.” 

“When you put it that way,” said Crowley. “I’m technically still on the clock, and I ought to be swindling the souls off of those poor, unsuspecting humans. Feel free to thwart me. If you can.” He blinked at Aziraphale with innocent, golden eyes. 

“I suppose I must,” grumbled Aziraphale. 

Crowley moved to sit at the other table. “Afternoon, gents. Got room for a third?” 

Aziraphale followed and sat opposite Crowley. “And a fourth,” he said quickly. 

“The more the merrier, as far as I’m concerned,” said the larger of the two men. His tunic was dusted with a patina of flour, and though he was quite muscled, he had a well-fed look about him. 

“We’ve played before,” said Aziraphale. “You’re - Khapet the baker?” 

“Aye, and you’re the scribe who cleaned me out last week,” grumbled Khapet. “When I was rather looking forward to visiting some of the ladies in the House of Qetesh.” 

“I was removing you from temptation, for the good of your immortal soul,” said Aziraphale. 

“You only say that because you’ve never visited the House,” said Khapet. “They do things there that’d make your toes curl.” 

“I _have_ visited the House, thanks,” said Aziraphale. He neglected to mention that it had only been because Head Office had sent him to heal the wounds of one of the women there. Qetesh might have been the goddess of pleasure, but she definitely wasn’t the goddess of medicine. 

“Coulda fooled me,” said the thinner man, cackling. Crowley laughed too, to Aziraphale’s chagrin. “I’m Menet, by the way. The more handsome, more successful brother.” 

“A messenger, aren’t you?” said Aziraphale. He recognized Menet as the man who had delivered a shipment to the records office, several Tuesdays ago. 

“He’s seen right through you already,” said Khapet. 

“Well, I’ve only got to be more handsome and more successful than you, which is not a high bar,” said Menet. 

“And I’m Crowley,” said the demon. “Part-time priest.” 

“So, we gonna play or what, priest?” said Menet.

“Of course,” said Crowley. “What are the stakes?” 

“Drinks for the table,” said Khapet.

“Interested in upping the stakes a bit?” prompted Crowley. 

Menet laughed. “No offence, but anything more than drinks is too rich for our blood.” 

“None taken,” said Crowley smoothly. “I was thinking something different.” 

“Well, spit it out,” said Khapet.

Crowley leaned forward. “How about... your immortal souls?” 

“Crowley!” said Aziraphale. 

“It’s the standard stake,” said Crowley. “Plus, I’m still on the clock.” 

“Like, my Ka?” said Menet. 

“And your Ba,” added Crowley. 

Menet and Khapet looked at each other. Then they looked at Crowley. Then they burst into peals of tipsy laughter. “Absolutely not,” said Khapet, tears in his eyes. “Who d’you think you are? Anubis?” 

Crowley didn’t look the least bit unhappy in response to that. To the contrary, he looked somewhat pleased. “Well, loser buys drinks for the table, then,” he said to the two men. Then he looked at Aziraphale. “But that’s chump change for you and I. Care to sweeten the pot, if either of us wins a challenge against the other?” 

“I’m not betting my soul,” said Aziraphale. 

“Of course not,” said Crowley. “I don’t want it anyways. A sanctimonious, fussy little thing. Smells like flowers and candles and such. How about - the loser buys drinks for the table, and -” 

“Nothing involving children or animals,” said Aziraphale immediately. The Ark fiasco still lingered in his mind. 

“Of course not. How about -” 

“No dancing, either.” 

“Let me finish. The loser also needs to tell the table... oh, nothing too difficult...”

“And no disclosure of corporate secrets,” added Aziraphale. 

“Ugh,” said Crowley. “You’re killing me here, angel. How about: the loser needs to state their favourite colour.” 

“What?” said Aziraphale. “That’s a stupid stake.” 

“You didn’t leave me much to work with,” said Crowley. “Think of it as a wager of pride. Or gathering intelligence about the enemy, if it helps you sleep at night.”

“I don’t sleep.” 

“Which explains a lot. Are you in or out?” 

Aziraphale considered it. He could part with his favourite colour and a modicum of pride if it came to that. “Fine,” he said. “If that’s what I’ve got to do to stop you from winning the immortal souls off these two fellows, then I have no choice.”

“Excellent,” said Crowley, happily. “Let’s get going, then.” 

“Oh, no,” said Menet. He patted himself down. “I haven’t got any extra dice on me.” 

“We came prepared,” said Crowley, and with a flourish, he produced two cups of dice from somewhere behind him. He passed one of the cups to Aziraphale. 

“Well, I won the last round, so I’ll go first,” said Menet. “Ones are wild.” 

They all shook the dice in their cups and slammed them down on the table. Aziraphale lifted his cup and looked at his dice. He had a pair of threes, a pair of fours, and a six. 

Menet bid first. “Four threes.”

Aziraphale was next. “Five threes,” he said.

“No cheating,” warned Crowley. 

“I don’t need to cheat to win,” said Aziraphale, defensively. 

“Dunno about that,” said Khapet. “I had him dead to rights last time, then he flipped his cup and there were five sixes. What’re the chances of that?”

“It wasn’t impossible,” demurred Aziraphale. 

“Yeah, but it’s less likely than you ever having visited a lady of the House of Qetesh,” said Khapet. “Or for that matter, a man of the House of Qetesh.” 

“What _do_ you do in your free time?” said Menet. 

“Of late, it involves gambling with a baker, a messenger, and the _worst _excuse for a priest I’ve ever met,” said Aziraphale. “Speaking of which, it’s your go.” 

“Four fours,” said Crowley lazily. “And I’ll have you know that priests aren’t chained to the Temple of Aten. We have personal lives too, y’know. Places to go, people to see. Things you wouldn’t understand.” 

“That’s not true,” said Aziraphale.

“Khapet, d’you feel like you’re missing some context here?” said Menet. 

“Aziraphale and I go way back,” said Crowley. 

“Yeah,” said Khapet. “I feel like I’m playing dice with two of Qetesh’s ladies, and they’re one catty look away from tearing each other’s hair out.” 

“I’d say one catty look away from something else, but sure,” said Menet.

Khapet snickered. “Four fives,” he bid. 

“Four sixes,” said Menet. “Could we speed it up a bit? I’ve got to get to the docks for a delivery soon.” 

“I promise that the scribes at the Records Office won’t miss their shipment at all,” said Aziraphale. 

“Whassat about the Records Office?” said Menet. 

“Nothing,” said Aziraphale. “Five sixes.” 

“We’re all bunking off today, then?” said Khapet. He leaned backwards, stretching his arms above his head. “Got my apprentices running the ovens and the market stall today. I won’t be missed.” 

“And I’ve got no problem postponing my afternoon engagements, either,” said Crowley. “Seven sixes.” 

“Challenge,” said Aziraphale. 

They flipped their dice cups over. There were five sixes. “Drinks are on you, Crowley,” said Aziraphale.

“Not so fast,” said Crowley. “Ones are wild, remember?” He pointed at the one in Khapet’s hand, and then the pair of ones in his own hand.

“I’m supposed to believe you rolled snake eyes naturally?” said Aziraphale. “You loaded the dice, Crowley.”

“The dice are as balanced as the scales of Ma’at,” said Crowley. 

“Plus, pairs are damn common,” interjected Khapet. 

“Thank you, Khapet,” said Crowley. “Unlike you, I don’t need to _cheat_.” He hiccupped and stood up. “Truth is, I just can’t be beat.” 

“Oh, no,” said Aziraphale. “Not again.” 

“I’m the prince of luck, the master of dice,” the demon continued. “They haven’t half my skill in paradise!” 

“I won’t tell you my favourite colour if you don’t sit down and shut up,” said Aziraphale. 

Crowley sat down, smiling. His point had already been made. 

“My favourite colour is white,” said Aziraphale. “The colour of the light in Heaven.” 

“White’s not a colour,” said Crowley. 

“It is, too,” said Aziraphale. 

“He’s right,” said Menet. “White’s a shade, not a colour. If you lighten up any colour up enough, it becomes white.” 

“You too?” said Aziraphale. “You can’t even read!” 

“I’m illiterate, not blind,” said Menet. 

“I always knew you was a cheater,” said Khapet. “Pick a real colour.” 

“Fine. Uh,” said Aziraphale, casting his thoughts around wildly. “Gold?” 

Crowley looked confused. “Why gold? You hardly wear any of it.” 

“Of course not. It would be crass to wear as much as you do,” said Aziraphale. “But gold is the colour of, uh.” He racked his thoughts as to what _gold_ represented. “I don’t need to explain myself to you!” 

“Fine, but you do need to buy us drinks,” said Menet. “Pony up, scribe.” 

“Let it not be said that I am a cheater or ungracious in defeat,” said Aziraphale. He waved the server over. “Four more. On me,” he said. “What’s your favourite colour, then, Crowley?” 

“Uh-uh,” said Crowley, and he wagged a finger at Aziraphale. “You’ll have to win that answer from me.” 

Aziraphale considered the challenge. He could tell this afternoon was a wash, as far as productivity was concerned. “Very well,” he said. “And since you know my favourite colour, what do you suggest I stake instead?” 

“Your favourite food?” said Crowley. 

“Accepted,” said Aziraphale. “Khapet, Menet, are you in?” 

“Aye,” said Khapet. “I’ll catch you cheating one of these days.” 

“Yep,” said Menet. “The docks can do without me, today.” 

“Well, tally-ho, gentlemen,” said Aziraphale. 

∽⧗∼

“So the author tried using, uh, concave mirrors to focus the energies of the ritual,” said Crowley, from across Aziraphale’s kitchen table. 

“Mmhmm,” said Aziraphale. The previous day off had done him a great deal of good. He felt lighter than he had before the loops had started. Perhaps lighter than he had in several years. 

“Which didn’t work,” said Crowley. 

“I see,” said Aziraphale. He kept reading from the Sumerian tablet. He’d had a few slabs stashed in his house, and didn’t see any harm in working on a bit of light reading. Crowley was doing most of the heavy lifting on the translation of the scroll, anyway. Which was fortunate, because he was approaching a critical moment in the story. Enkidu and Gilgamesh had heard tidings of a giant in the cedar forests, and ventured forth to challenge it in combat. 

> _They crossed seven mountains before they came to the gate of the forest. Then Enkidu called out to Gilgamesh, “Do not go down into the forest; when I opened the gate my hand lost its strength.” _
> 
> _Gilgamesh answered him, “Dear friend, do not speak like a coward. We have not travelled so far to turn back now. You, who are tried in wars and battles, hold close to me now and you will feel no fear of death. Keep beside me and your weakness will pass, the trembling will leave your hand.”_

“So, instead of using mirrors, the author tried dancing naked in the moonlight,” said Crowley loudly.

That didn’t sound right to Aziraphale. “Did they really?” he asked, with renewed interest.

“No,” said Crowley. 

“Oh,” said Aziraphale. 

“But I’m reading _your_ damned scroll, you ought to pay some attention,” he said aggrievedly. “What else is so interesting?” He turned his head to look at Aziraphale’s tablets. “Is that Sumerian?”

“Yes,” said Aziraphale. “An epic adventure between two friends, Gilgamesh and Enkidu.” 

“Oh, I know that story.” 

“I find that hard to believe.” 

“Well, I know _of_ it. Heard bits and pieces of it recited in the streets of Uruk and Nippur. It was very popular. You’d have noticed if you’d ever taken a breather from your thwarting in something that wasn’t a book,” said Crowley. “Also, isn’t it a romance? I thought you were too good for the romances.” He raised an eyebrow at Aziraphale. 

Aziraphale felt himself flushing. “It’s terrible,” he said, defensively. “Complete trash. I’m only reading it because it’s the only thing I _haven’t_ read in this whole city.” 

Crowley said nothing.

“I mean, they’ve also made the protagonist out to have divine lineage, the strength of a wild bull, and be the most handsome man on Earth to boot,” Aziraphale rambled. “Completely unrealistic.”

“Yeah,” said Crowley, at last. “Completely unrealistic. We all know who the most handsome man on Earth is.” 

“Who’s that?” 

“The one in the tavern who brings you your drink,” said Crowley. 

“That’s not a real answer,” said Aziraphale.

“Have you got a better one?” 

“Not really.” 

“Then, in the absence of any other serious contenders, the matter is settled,” said Crowley loftily. “Do remind me who they’ve paired Gilgamesh up with this time.The goddess of love? The goddess of death? Or maybe his own mother?” 

“Um,” said Aziraphale. “I think he’s supposed to get paired up with the man who was made expressly to keep him from tearing up the City of Uruk in boredom. _That is the one who was made as your equal, and when you see him you will be glad. He is the star who fell from heaven, and he is the companion that will never forsake you,” _he quoted. “They beat each other to a pulp in the street and become friends.” 

“And then?” pressed Crowley. 

Aziraphale pressed his lips together. “Well, they’re off to fight Humbaba, the giant of the cedar forest, to cement their fame and fortune. I haven’t made it much further than that -” 

“Don’t stop on my account, angel.” 

“I thought you knew the story already.” 

“Maybe I just want my memory refreshed,” said Crowley. He stood up and slid onto the bench beside Aziraphale, resting his back against the table’s edge. 

“You’re not even going to remember tomorrow,” said Aziraphale. 

“I’m just curious what happens next,” said Crowley. “You can’t finish off on a cliffhanger. Do _you_ want to stop reading on a cliffhanger?” 

“We ought to be working on the translation,” said Aziraphale.

“I’ve done enough translating today. It’s your turn,” said Crowley. “I mean, unless your Sumerian is too rusty.” He patted Aziraphale’s arm condescendingly. “Translating is _such_ hard work, after all. I _completely_ understand if you haven’t got it in you to keep going.” 

“My Sumerian is fine,” said Aziraphale. He thought he should have been irritated by the demon’s obvious goad, but he wasn’t. “And it would be quite cruel to leave _you_ on a cliffhanger.” 

“Then it’s settled, isn’t it?” 

“Indeed,” said Aziraphale. He drew his finger down to where he’d stopped reading, and cleared his throat. 

> _Enkidu nodded. “Yes, we will go down into the heart of the forest together. When two go together, each will protect himself and shield his companion.”_
> 
> _Together they went down into the forest, and walked between the cedars in Humbaba’s tracks, towards the green mountain where the giant dwelled. _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. I'm taking some liberties with N.K. Sander's translation here.


	7. Red is the Colour

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aziraphale's day(s) off, part 2.

“Nine fives,” said Crowley. 

One of the demon’s hands settled protectively on his dice cup. The other raised a mug to his lips. Aziraphale watched all of this carefully. He was quite certain that Crowley was bluffing. “Challenge,” he said. 

They turned their dice cups over. “Only seven fives,” said Aziraphale triumphantly. “Including my ones. Pay up.” 

“Who’s got the snake-eyes now?” said Crowley. He summoned the server, swaying slightly in his seat. 

“Pairs are damn common,” interjected Khapet. 

Crowley patted Aziraphale on the shoulder. “Don’t look too hard into it,” he said. “The chances of rolling exactly two ones are -” his eyes flicked upwards, as he calculated the odds. “- slightly less than one in six.” 

“You shan’t taint my victory,” said Aziraphale. “Particularly when you owe us all your favourite colour.” 

“Mustn’t forget that,” said Khapet. He shook his head. “You’d think it was the most important part.” 

“It’s cos they’re too rich for their own blood,” said Menet, sagely. “The decadence goes right to their heads. Once they realize they can buy whatever they want, they start making up other things to care about. Mostly involving getting one over each other.”

“Poor buggers,” said Khapet.

“The worst thing,” said Menet, “is that once you get high up in the Pharaoh’s eye, you lose the can-do to speak what you mean and start dancing around all political.” 

“Seems like a problem that a visit to the House of Qetesh could fix,” said Khapet. 

The brothers sniggered and raised their mugs to each other’s cleverness. 

“Shut it, you two,” said Aziraphale jovially. “Crowley. Your favourite colour, then?” 

Crowley seemed to be mulling over the possibilities. “Black,” said Crowley. “It’s stylish. Goes with everything.” 

“Black’s not a colour. Nor is white,” said Aziraphale. 

“Yeah,” said Menet, “They’re shades.” 

“Thank you, Menet,” said Aziraphale. He turned back to Crowley. “Pick something else.” 

Crowley fiddled with the hem of his tunic a moment. His gaze swept around the tavern courtyard, from the leafy arbor above them, to their brown clay dice cups, lingering on Aziraphale’s face, and finally settling on his own gem-studded bracelets. “Red, then,” said Crowley. “Red is the colour of fire, and blood, and all sorts of lovely things.” 

Aziraphale laughed, giddily. “Really? I thought you’d be more into gold. Since you’re wearing more gold than the rest of us put together.” 

Menet squinted at Aziraphale. “But you’ve got -” 

Aziraphale readjusted the bit of power he used to prevent humans from asking uncomfortable questions like _why are you so pale _or _how come your eyes are different_. He must have had more to drink than he realized. “No, I haven’t,” he said.

“Yeah, you’ve got me,” said Crowley. “I’m just a big ol’ black-winged magpie. Can’t resist picking up gold bits and slapping them on my body.” 

Khapet laughed. “A magpie! You been skimming off the temple treasury too, priest?” 

“Nah, I’ve just got some very profitable side-gigs going on,” said Crowley. 

“Side gig?” said Menet. “Do share, mate.” 

Crowley leaned in. “Well, I start by writing a letter.”

“You? Write?” said Aziraphale. 

“Shush, scribe,” said Crowley. “As I was saying - I write a letter, saying that I’m a member of Nubian royalty. Due to some financial finagling, there is an unexpected yet unaccounted-for surplus in the imperial budget that I would like to transfer out of the country.”

“And then?” said Aziraphale, knowing full well where this was going. 

“However, due to a number of unwise investments, I require assistance to bribe key officials and get the process rolling.” Crowley paused. “Assistance in the form of a modest upfront payment. Then I send the letter to the nobles with more gold than brains, and the profits roll in,” he concluded. 

“Nobody’s thick enough to fall for your Nubian prince scam,” said Khapet. 

“You’d be surprised how many people’ll make an upfront payment for the chance at a fortune,” said Crowley. “Lotteries. Investments. Multi-level marketing.” He ticked them off on his fingers. 

“How’s your bosses feel about this?” said Menet. 

“Between you and me, all of my higher-ups are so far up their own asses they wouldn’t notice if I was praising Aten, redistributing the wealth, or napping,” said Crowley. “Just as long as my job gets done in a more-or-less timely manner, and I don’t end up discorpor- dead in a ditch.” 

“You can’t say that about Head Office,” said Aziraphale. 

“I just did. They’re so busy with their own internal politics, that they won’t miss me spending an afternoon with you fine folks.” Crowley paused, and raised a hand delicately over his own mouth. “Oh dear, I’ve done it again.” 

“Wish I could say that about the harbourmaster,” said Menet. “What a tightass. _Deliver this to the Records Hall, Menet. _And then _deliver this to the palace, Menet. _What’s next? _Don’t forget to wipe your ass when you shit, Menet?_” 

“My boss is a layabout. I’m surprised that he even turns a profit each year,” said Khapet. “Also, I’m self-employed.”

The three other people at the table turned expectantly to Aziraphale, who shifted uncomfortably. When Menet mentioned the harbourmaster, he’d been making sure the scroll was in the bag at his feet. It seemed like no harm had been done when he’d forgotten to retrieve it from the docks before joining Crowley at the tavern the first time. “It’s hard to get, er, in touch with my higher-ups sometimes,” he conceded. 

“That’s the spirit,” said the demon encouragingly. 

Their drinks arrived, and Crowley handed a mug to Aziraphale. “Drink up. Another round of dice?” 

“Damn right,” said Khapet. 

“Let’s go,” said Menet.

Aziraphale was feeling rather warm and fuzzy inside. “Allons-y, gentlemen.” 

∽⧖∼

Aziraphale stood in his office, swaying slightly. He drew a rough circle on the dusty ground with his foot. Then, he picked up two handfuls of harvest records and lit them all on fire, to scatter on the outer edges of the circle. 

It was, by far, the sloppiest circle he’d ever drawn. But when he spoke the Words, a steady blue beam of light sprang forth nonetheless. 

“Hello, you have reached the office of the Voice of God. We are sorry that we are not available to take your call right now. Please leave a message after the tone.” 

A chime pealed through Aziraphale’s office. It sounded like a thousand people, all going mad at the same time. 

“Is it still Tuesday up there?” Aziraphale said. “Of course it’s still Tuesday up there,” he spoke at the beam of light. “Not that you’d know a Tuesday from a Wednesday or a Thursday anyways.” 

He was emboldened by the lack of response. 

“Ten million angels up there doing Lord-knows-what, and Earth’s only got a few hundred field agents, more being recalled every year. No wonder nobody’s noticed a demon insinuating herself into the Pharaoh’s body until now. Meanwhile, how many have you got on Mars? What are they even doing up there?” 

Aziraphale was shouting, at this point. 

“The decennial performance reviews are a terrible way of gauging performance. The organization is far too top-heavy. Gabriel’s new corporate manifesto is completely out-of-touch with reality. And Sandalphon is - where do I even begin with Sandalphon? You can’t possibly say that his clean-up job in Sodom and Gomorrah was by-the-book. For God’s sake, what kind of mind thinks, _oh, those children would make nice pillars of salt?_ That angel is a _menace_ and he ought to be locked up.” 

“The length of your message has reached its temporal limit,” said the voice again. “Your call is very important to us. We will respond within five business days.”

“No, you won’t,” said Aziraphale contemptuously, as the circle closed. 

∽⧗∼

Aziraphale and Crowley sat beside each other in the angel’s kitchen. The demonic scroll lay forgotten to the side, while Aziraphale recounted how Gilgamesh and Enkidu ventured into the cedar forest and triumphed over Humbaba. The cedar giant begged for his life. 

> _Humbaba said to Gilgamesh: “Let me go free, Gilgamesh, and I will be your servant. The forest and the mountain shall be yours. I shall cut down all my trees and build you a palace.” _
> 
> _Enkidu counselled Gilgamesh: “If the snared bird returns to its nest, then you, my friend, will never return home. Humbaba will bar the mountain road against you, he will rob you of your fame and valour.” _
> 
> _Humbaba heard all he said, and he cursed them both. “May neither of you grow old!”_
> 
> _But Gilgamesh heard what his friend had spoken, and he drew forth his knife and smote the monster’s neck. _
> 
> _Together they felled the cedars, so that the memory of Humbaba was extinguished, from the Euphrates to the mountains. _

“Well, that’s a cheerful end,” said Crowley. “Lots of foreshadowing.” 

“I’m glad that the story’s switched genres, at least,” said Aziraphale. “More grand epic, less of that terrible soulmate drivel.”

“Oh, no, it’s definitely still a romance,” said Crowley. “It’s in the subtext.” 

Aziraphale squinted. “What subtext?” 

“Honestly, angel, how dense can you be?” huffed Crowley. “Humbaba only exists to challenge and strengthen the relationship between Gilgamesh and Enkidu. Without obstacles to overcome, their relationship would remain stagnant.”

“I’m still not seeing it,” said Aziraphale. “Gilgamesh’s triumph over Humbaba clearly represents how humans tamed the wilderness with civilization. There’s nothing remotely romantic about it. The entire story is a metaphor for the alternatingly destructive and constructive nature of mankind. It’ll probably wrap up with the two of them challenging the gods, and being struck down for their hubris as an allegory for the Fall. Then the two of them will lick their wounds and learn to content themselves with their own mortality.” 

“You sound like an apprentice priest trying to impress his master,” said Crowley. “Next it’ll be _the red of rubies foreshadows spilled blood_.” 

“That’s a terrible example. Colours _are_ often symbolic,” said Aziraphale. 

“You haven’t even asked the most fundamental question,” said Crowley. “This story would work perfectly well without Enkidu. Why keep him around at all? Why is this a story of Gilgamesh-and-Enkidu instead of Gilgamesh alone?” 

“Uh,” fumbled Aziraphale. “Maybe he embodies the taming of the wilderness? I’m sure his origin-story will be important later.” 

“Oh, Enkidu’s important right now,” said Crowley. “Especially to Gilgamesh.” 

“Maybe the author thought it might be more interesting if the story had two protagonists?” suggested Aziraphale. “Representing the duality of the city and the countryside?” 

“That’s a rubbish reason to have two protagonists, and you know it,” said Crowley. “Sometimes, I think you’re just being willfully blind. But then again, I once saw you walk into a pillar because your nose was in a book.” He sighed. “Suppose that’s just the way you are.” 

“What?” said Aziraphale. 

“Blind,” said Crowley patiently. “Well, we’ll see how the story goes. Keep going, angel.” 

“That’s actually the end of the fifth tablet,” said Aziraphale. “I’m not sure I’ve got the sixth around here.” He stood up and cast a gaze over the texts he kept in the kitchen.

“You ever thought about cleaning up around here?” Crowley said.

“There’s a system,” said Aziraphale. He walked to the former bedroom of the house, where he stacked his most recent acquisitions in a storage chest, prior to shelving them. “I must have left the sixth tablet in the Records Hall...” 

“Let’s get it,” said Crowley. 

∽⧖∼

Aziraphale rifled through a basket of documents in his own office of the Records Hall. The sixth tablet wasn’t there, either.

“There’s a system, is there?” said Crowley. He leaned against the doorframe with his arms crossed. 

“Quiet, demon,” said Aziraphale. By process of elimination, it meant that he’d sent it into storage in a particular corner of the basement. He straightened up and dusted his knees off, and headed for the basement, Crowley following a step or two behind him. 

The air was cooler underground, and small windows near the wood-beamed ceiling lit the long corridors. Their footsteps echoed slightly off the mud brick walls as they passed wooden door after wooden door, until at last Aziraphale stopped near the end of the corridor, in the remotest corner of the basement. 

“This is your secret storeroom?” said Crowley, somewhat disparagingly. 

“What of it?” said Aziraphale. 

“It’s not very secret. Or secure. Any scribe trying to skive off work could get in here.” 

“Well, they wouldn’t. The head scribe’s word carries weight in the Records Hall.” 

“Of course, O head scribe,” said Crowley. “I’m just pointing out that it’s an excellent place for a nap.”

“Nobody’s napping in there. They wouldn’t be able to break in. I’ve got the only key.” Aziraphale fumbled through his leather bag. 

“There are ways to get in without keys,” said Crowley. “You could break down the door, for one.” 

“It’s solid wood!” said Aziraphale. He patted himself down, wondering if he’d left his keys on his other belt. 

“Not entirely. There’s a weak spot near the lock. You’ve got to kick it. Don’t use your shoulder, unless you want to dislocate it. Unless the door opens towards you, in which case you’re boned unless...” He left the end of the sentence dangling in the semi-darkness of the corridor. 

Aziraphale ignored Crowley’s choice of words, but took the bait. “Unless what?” 

Crowley brandished a small linen roll, from which a set of pointed metal implements protruded. 

“Oh, no,” Aziraphale said. He made to grab the lockpicks from Crowley, who jerked them out of the angel’s reach. 

“You wish. These are mine. Get your own.” 

“You don’t need those at all!” 

“Honestly, angel,” Crowley huffed. “You can’t use a miracle every time you want to break into a locked room. It’s wasteful. What’s more, it shows a serious lack of original thinking.” 

“Just watch me,” said Aziraphale. He miracled open the door anyways. The door swung inwards, revealing shelves of neatly stacked tablets, scrolls, and loose papyrus sheaves. In the middle of the storage room was set a small table, over an oversized reed mat. Aziraphale closed the door and snapped his fingers, lighting up the storeroom. He located the tablet quickly. 

“So wasteful,” Crowley repeated. “All for - seriously? A bit of Sumerian literature?” 

“You want to hear what happens in the sixth tablet, or not?” said Aziraphale.

They settled around the table, Aziraphale cross-legged on one side, and Crowley sprawled across the reed mat on the other. 

> _Glorious Inanna lifted her eyes, seeing the beauty of Gilgamesh. She said, “Come to me, Gilgamesh, and be my bridegroom. Grant me seed of your body, and open your heart to me. Let me be your bride, and you shall be my husband.” _

Gilgamesh, for once, had rejected Inanna. 

> _Gilgamesh opened his mouth and answered glorious Inanna, “I would gladly give you bread and all sorts of food fit for a god. I would give you wine to drink fit for a queen. But I will not make you my wife. Your lovers have found you like a brazier which smoulders in the cold, a backdoor which keeps out neither squall of wind nor storm. Which of your lovers did you ever love for ever? No man of yours has pleased you for all time. How would it go with me?” _
> 
> _When Ishtar heard this she fell into a bitter rage._

“I told you it’s a romance,” said Crowley. 

“It’s not,” said Aziraphale. “It’s a diatribe on the capriciousness of those in positions of power, and the dangers of offending the higher-ups.”

“Well, yes,” said Crowley. “But it also serves to illustrate Gilgamesh’s devotion to Enkidu. The man slept with literally every man and woman in Uruk before meeting Enkidu, who was described as, uh, a meteor from the sky -” 

“The exact phrasing was _the star who fell from heaven_,” interrupted Aziraphale. 

“That’s it. _The star who fell from heaven, the companion who will never forsake you_,” said Crowley. “Enkidu is Gilgamesh’s _equal_. Inanna is not. There’s no way Gilgamesh could love Inanna as he loves Enkidu.” 

“He _could_, she’s the goddess of love -” 

“Plus, she couldn’t love him back. She wouldn’t risk her skin for Gilgamesh in the way Enkidu has.” 

“Well, there’s nothing to risk. Inanna’s immortal, after all.” 

“But she’s not invulnerable. She dies and is resurrected in _The Descent of Inanna_.” 

“What?” 

“The sequel. Seriously, how did you miss out on it?” said Crowley. “Gilgamesh and Enkidu and Inanna were as big as - as Apep and Ra and Ma’at around here.” And at Aziraphale’s blank look, he rolled his eyes and clarified, “as big as Adam and Eve for the Chosen People.” 

“Oh,” said Aziraphale. “Well, I was _busy_ chasing you from town to town a thousand years ago -” 

“Which is very flattering, of course, but -” he shook his head and _tsked _at Aziraphale. “You’re _such_ a tourist.” 

“I’ve been here for hundreds of years, same as you.” 

“But you dress like an - an Akkadian peasant, instead of the head scribe,” said Crowley. “I’m not trying to make you feel self-conscious - but when in Egypt, why not do as the Egyptians do?” 

“It’s never gotten in the way of my duties before,” said Aziraphale slowly. “And, well, clothes and customs change so quickly. You know, it was Anubis who was once lord of the underworld? Now Anubis is just the gatekeeper, and Osiris is the king of the dead. Why bother keeping track of who’s who around here?”

“Yeah, I can understand that,” said Crowley. “One moment I’m chatting with Imhoetp about unit fractions, and then the next moment he’s gone and died of consumption. Other times, I wake up and I feel like I’m still in the Garden of Eden, y’know? But then I open my eyes, and I’m here, instead.” 

“Yes,” said Aziraphale. “Here we are instead.” They said nothing for a while, sharing a moment of silence for a different place, and a different time. Then, Aziraphale cleared his throat and said, “You were saying something about Inanna?” 

“Yeah,” said Crowley. “I was saying that Inanna asks Gilgamesh for his heart, but without knowing what it means, having never shared her own heart with any of her other lovers. She’s never sacrificed anything, because she’s a god. It’s just what gods do, in every story” 

“Gods, plural or singular?”

Crowley shrugged. “Same difference.” 

“You’re approaching blasphemy,” said Aziraphale. 

“Well, I can’t exactly Fall again,” said Crowley. “You, on the other hand -” He cleared his throat. “All I’m getting at here is that the story’s a romance. But I understand if it’s something that’s hard for you to appreciate. You’ve only ever loved the light of Heaven. No wonder you can’t relate to the tale of Gilgamesh and Enkidu.” 

“And you can? You’re a demon. You’ve never loved anything,” said Aziraphale. It came out a bit harsher than he intended, but Crowley just blinked at him, seemingly unfazed at the accusation. In fact, most of Aziraphale’s verbal jabs seemed to just glance off the demon. He supposed it was because Crowley had spent a lot of time both verbally sparring with Aziraphale and coming to terms with his own demonic nature, and resolved to diversify his rhetoric. 

“Then it appears the humans have created a work beyond both our combined understanding,” Crowley said, eyes wide with false innocence. 

“It is _not_ beyond our understanding,” said Aziraphale. 

“We’ll see about that,” said Crowley. “Keep reading.” 

“I will,” said Aziraphale. 

And he did. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I promise Aziraphale and the story will get back to business next chapter. Sort of.


	8. Temple Business

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aziraphale's day(s) off, part 3.

“This is good shit,” said Menet. He sloshed the beer around in his mug to underline his point. The sun cast long shadows from the reeds and palm trees around the tavern courtyard, and they’d collectively abandoned the game of dice once Khapet claimed to have gotten too drunk to police Aziraphale’s gameplay. 

“As long as you like it, dear boy,” said Aziraphale, from his seat beside the messenger. Egyptian beer was a sweet, rich, affair that could double as a meal. The angel’s head felt pleasantly muzzy, but his palate remained sharp enough that he could still miss the acidity and fruitiness of wine. Farmland around the new capital was poor, so wine was imported from Thebes for a privileged few. Aziraphale had ensured that he’d been on the receiving end of some of those wine shipments, but even those were horrifically infrequent. 

“Not up to your standards?” said Khapet. 

“Aziraphale’s got fancy taste,” said Crowley. He was balanced on the back two legs of his chair, with his feet propped up on the table. 

“Fair enough,” said Khapet. “Malt beer’s pretty basic stuff. But if it’s fancy you want, I’ve got brew with a pomegranate infusion so juicy it’ll burst right out of its jugs.” 

Aziraphale made a belated connection between the grains used for bread and the grains used for beer, both of which the baker would have access to. “I didn’t think anyone imported pomegranates here,” he said. 

“And nobody grows them locally,” said Crowley. His chair was tilted so far backwards now that Aziraphale was certain only a miracle kept him from toppling backwards to the ground. 

“Erm, I have my sources,” said Khapet.

Crowley and Aziraphale fixed him with a pair of unblinking, expectant stares. 

“Trade secret?” said the baker. 

The silence grew, until Khapet gave in. “Alright, they’re from a wild grove on an island to the south!” 

“But pomegranates aren’t native to this country,” said Crowley. 

“Well, if someone owned those trees, they’d have said something by now,” said Khapet. “But it’s just been us, the fruit, and the fish. And the beer.” 

“The fish,” cackled Menet, who was deeper in his cups than Khapet was. “Dead stupid out there. They’ll go for a bit of boiled egg on a line like - like -” 

“Like a scribe for wine?” suggested Crowley. 

“Crowley!” said Aziraphale. 

“Exactly. But that’s _our_ spot, understand?” hiccuped Menet. “Cos we found it first. You two get your own island.” 

Khapet cuffed Menet gently on the head. “Oi, there’s enough fish for everyone there,” he said. “What my dear brother actually means is that, we’d deeply appreciate it if you didn’t blab to every Thutmose, Daki, and Hori about that island.”

“Of course,” said Aziraphale, having no desire to go fishing on the brothers’ crocodile-infested island. 

“Discretion is my middle name,” said Crowley, not to be outdone.

“You don’t have a middle name,” said Aziraphale. 

“I can fix that,” said Crowley. 

“You don’t even have a family name,” said Aziraphale. 

“Crowley _is_ my family name,” insisted the demon. 

“Then what’s your given name?” said Aziraphale. Crowley didn’t answer. “Oh, dear lord. How can you have a family name without a given name? There’s an _order_ to these things, Crowley -” 

“I’ve got a given name. I just don’t use it anymore,” said Crowley, and then Aziraphale remembered exactly whom they’d received their given names from. 

Fortunately, Menet interrupted him before he could apologize. “Whassat about names? Everybody down here has only one name. Unless you’re a Pharaoh. Then you have, like, five names,” said the messenger. “But you ain’t a Pharaoh, so you don’t.”

Crowley looked intrigued by the notion of having a long name followed by multiple long epithets, as the Pharaohs did. Aziraphale decided that he’d be damned if he had to append “Lord of Chaos” or “Exalted Serpent” after Crowley’s name, and made up his mind that he’d only call the demon “Crowley.” He quickly changed the topic to dissuade the demon from inventing new titles for himself. “Khapet, you were saying something about pomegranate beer?” he asked the baker. 

“Oh, that. I sell it in the market most afternoons,” said Khapet. 

“Except this one,” said Menet. He rocked backwards and forwards on the bench. 

“Aye,” said Khapet. “No need to rub it in.” The baker belched. 

“Hmm,” said Aziraphale. “The market, you say?” 

“I do say,” said Khapet, and he grinned at his own cleverness.

Menet pitched suddenly backwards. Crowley and Khapet both reached across the table in reaction, but it was Aziraphale who caught him before he could crack his head open on the ground. “Careful, dear boy,” he said, easing Menet upright onto his seat again. 

“I got him,” said Khapet. The baker got off his seat and made his way around to Aziraphale’s side of the table. He hoisted one of Menet’s arms around his shoulder, and bodily lifted the messenger to his feet. “Up we go,” he grunted. Aziraphale and Crowley both stood up to help, and Khapet shook his head. “I got him,” repeated the baker. 

“Nothing that a good night’s sleep couldn’t cure,” said Crowley. 

“I sure hope so,” said Khapet. “I’ll dunk his sorry arse in a bucket if he wakes up hungover _one more time_. The other messengers at the dock might be able to cover for him one afternoon, but not two days in a row.” Then, he added, “Thanks for the drinks. Dice again another time?” 

“Yeah,” said Crowley.

“Maybe,” said Aziraphale, now contemplating the roster of messengers who operated out of the Akhetaten docks. Did that mean that the harvest records had -

“Good,” said Khapet. He nodded at Aziraphale. “You’re not a bad sort, scribe,” he said. 

Aziraphale dipped his chin at Khapet. The two brothers turned around and shambled away from the tavern, like a great two-headed beast. 

Aziraphale and Crowley were left in the courtyard, then, watching the sun slowly disappear behind the west bank of the Nile.

“That went well,” said Crowley, interrupting Aziraphale’s thoughts. 

“What went well?” said Aziraphale. 

“Just - this,” said Crowley, fluttering his hand around in front of him. 

“Not another of your fiendish plots to get one over me, is it?” said Aziraphale lightly. 

Crowley looked at Aziraphale very seriously. “If I was trying to _get one over you_, as you put it, you’d know,” he said. 

“Are you always this sentimental?”

“I’ve had a good day,” said Crowley, and he began to list reasons on his fingers. “Nobody discorporated in a ditch. No budget meeting at the Temple of Aten. Best of all, no urgent calls from Head Office.”

“Mmhm,” said Aziraphale. Another thought struck him. “Er, so what _is_ your given name?” he asked. 

“Don’t remember,” said Crowley. 

“Oh. Right. Forget I asked,” said Aziraphale. 

“S’alright,” said Crowley. “It probably had, like, four syllables and some incomprehensible, pretentious meaning.”

“Then what does _Crowley_ mean?”

“It means whatever I want it to mean,” said the demon decisively. “That’s the beauty of picking your own name, y’know.”

“You don’t regret Falling at all, do you?” said Aziraphale, in wonder. 

“It’s got its ups and its downs,” acknowledged Crowley. “But all in all, it’s like wondering if the pomegranates are plumper on the other side of the river. Except that the river is full of ravenous crocodiles, and the bridge collapsed the first time you crossed.”

They lapsed into a companionable silence again. It felt a little bit like they were both standing on the eastern wall of the Garden of Eden, watching the first humans fend off wildlife in a vast, unforgiving land. The land was still vast, but was now dotted with pockets of civilization, and an unceasing procession of humans crossed their view on the riverbank path. Ships glided over the Nile, which had taken on a red-and-gold glow from the sunset. Some were little more than a bundle of papyrus reeds thrashed together, and others were wooden cargo barges engineered to within an inch of their lives. They all looked like they were floating on a river of light instead of a river of water.

He looked at Crowley, too. The sharp planes of the demon’s face were softened by the golden glow of the setting sun, but Aziraphale could not mistake him for anyone else. Maybe he stood a little straighter than he had two thousand years prior, in pleated white robes rather of drapey black ones, and with a shorter, rather questionable haircut in the local style, but overall, Crowley’s appearance retained a comforting familiarity. He surreptitiously reached out to touch the demon’s aura as well. Crowley’s aura seemed likewise unchanged underneath a patina of relief and contentment, though somehow richer and more substantial than it had been when he first emerged in the Garden of Eden. 

Then the demon turned to face Aziraphale, and he hastily withdrew his mental touch. “Have I changed much since we met?” he said, hoping Crowley hadn’t noticed anything. 

“Absolutely,” said Crowley, without hesitation. 

“Really?” 

“Oh, yeah,” said Crowley. “You’re more ornery now.”

“Ornery,” repeated Aziraphale

“Yeah.” 

“I’m not _ornery_.” 

“Well, this is the first time in _years_ where we’ve had a talk that didn’t end with anyone discorporated in a ditch, or someone stalking off in a hissy fit,” said Crowley. “But it wasn’t always like this. We were perfectly civil until Gabriel made you do those team-building exercises upstairs.” He exhaled a long breath. 

“I thought I should make an effort to be more of a team player,” said Aziraphale uncomfortably. 

“Yeah, I got that impression, when you blew off that dinner in Tell Hassuna,” said Crowley. “It’s alright, you don’t need to apologize,” he rushed out, as Azirphale opened his mouth again. 

“I wasn’t going to apologize,” said Aziraphale, which was at least half true. “I just wanted to ask - didn’t your office try to get you in on any team-building?” 

“Oh, yeah,” said Crowley. 

“And?” 

“Well, I just didn’t go,” snorted Crowley. “What do I look like? Satan’s errand-boy? My time is valuable.”

“You just ignored the summons?” said Aziraphale, aghast at Crowley’s insubordination. 

“Team-building exercises are all rubbish. I don’t think anyone else from Downstairs went, either. See, you can’t drop Beelzebub during trust-falls, but she can drop _you._” 

“Doesn’t getting _dropped_ defeat the purpose of team-building?”

“Well, after Beelzebub drops you, everybody laughs - _oh, Dagon, I can’t believe you _Fell_ for that, ho ho ho _\- and the office bonds over that instead.” 

“Er, right,” said Aziraphale. Team-building upstairs had involved few icebreaker exercises, but had included a steady stream of inspirational speakers about the _Great Plan_ and _ineffability_ and _not underestimating the enemy_, and interspersed with a truly shocking number of group singalongs. “How did you just skip it?” 

“Uh,” said Crowley. “The same way you skip anything else? You say that you’re in the middle of thwarting the opposition, or mark your threshold with lambsblood, or remember some urgent business in Mexico to attend to, or -” 

“Why Mexico?” 

“They appreciate snakes there, if you must know,” said Crowley. “Fascinating local mythology. One of their local deities is a _feathered serpent_. The feathers represent the divine, and the scaly bits represents being amongst the creatures of earth, and together, the feathered serpent is an emissary between the natural and the supernatural.” Then he looked at Aziraphale again, and threw his hands up in the air. “Look, it doesn’t matter if you’re in Mexico or mopping a floor, just as long as Head Office doesn’t follow up in person. Which they usually don’t, because they’ve got _ten million_ other asses to fill the seats.” 

“Your work ethic is appalling,” said Aziraphale. 

“Hey, whose idea was it to go to the tavern in the first place?” said Crowley. “I had things to do, y’know. Temple business to attend to.”

“Such as slithering around on the riverbank, frightening housewives doing their laundry? Oh, yes, that sounds_ very_ important,” said Aziraphale. 

There was a flash of green light before Crowley could answer. 

∽⧖∼

Aziraphale remained curious as to exactly what Crowley meant by “temple business” despite the demon’s previous allusions to a “budget meeting” and a “routine temptation.” He firmly excused himself from their argument on the riverbank, so as to retrieve the demonic scroll from the docks, and to enable the demon roam about Akhetaten on his own schedule. 

Then, he tracked down Crowley’s aura. Beyond all expectations, the demon really was headed for the Great Temple of the Aten. Aziraphale followed at a discreet distance, taking care to shield his own aura more carefully than usual. 

The Great Temple of the Aten was a great open-aired complex surrounded by a tall, mud-brick wall. The foremost building in the grounds, directly in front of the main gate was a long, narrow offerings-hall that served to receive offerings for the Aten. Its entrance was flanked with wide, fluted columns, and painted with scenes of a faceless sun shining over the Pharaoh and his family. 

To both sides of the hall were rows upon rows of offering tables. Though there were many tables, the offerings were meager - a few stray loaves of bread, joints of meat, and bowls of incense. The temple was sparsely attended this afternoon, mostly by the unemployed hoping for a handout later, and by brownnosing nobles hoping to catch a glimpse of the Pharaoh. The latter was somewhat unlikely, given that Razikael had presumably immersed herself in temporal research of late and did not take disturbances to her concentration kindly.

Crowley took a path to the right side of the offerings hall, through a simple garden. There was no shade on the garden path, so that a worshipper could bask in the Aten’s light anywhere in the temple complex. Aziraphale followed the demon from a prudent distance, until they arrived at the temple sanctuary at the back of the complex. 

The sanctuary, another mud-brick building more roofless than not, was located at the highest point in the entire complex. In front of the building was a large planted courtyard, the centre of which was a painted red Aten-disc on the tiled ground. In lieu of painted sunrays, seven long, linear flowerbeds stretched outward from the central disc. Stairs led from the Aten-disc to the sanctuary entrance, which was flanked with a dozen fat columns, tapering up to support a painted capital. The demon walked right over the disc and disappeared inside. 

Aziraphale lingered outside. Would it be worth the risk to disguise himself as a priest and follow? He decided against the notion, given that he had only a passing familiarity with the rites that the Pharaoh Akhenaten had introduced. Aziraphale sat on a bench on the opposite side of the sun-disc on the ground, instead, and turned his face up to the sun in an imitation of the other worshippers. Then, with his eyes closed, he focussed on the words he could hear in the wind. Phrases swept by him - both scraps of conversation from the worshippers and the priests.

With effort, he isolated Crowley’s voice from the din. He might not have attained sufficient familiarity with a less garrulous demon’s speech patterns, and thus been unable to eavesdrop. But with Crowley being Crowley - well, garrulous wasn’t a problem. 

“Harnu, this is a budget meeting. Save the heretic-purging for the steering committee next week,” he heard. This was followed by several minutes of indistinct shuffling and speech from multiple voices, before Crowley spoke again. 

“If the temple treasury is so full, then how ‘bout the custodians get a raise? The grounds are huge!” Then, another pause, followed by “If sweeping is easy, how ‘bout you sweep the whole temple and see how you like it?” 

Aziraphale didn’t detect any miracles being exercised in the meeting room, nor did he care to listen to Crowley haggle over how much the custodians were being paid. He wondered how much his scribes got paid, since he’d never given them a raise in his long tenure as head scribe, or bothered himself about currency or the cost of living at all. The budgetary discussion flowed right over him as he mulled modern economics, until Crowley’s voice broke through the other priests’ incessant murmurs once more. 

“Oh, for the love of - shut - up - about - the - heretics,” said Crowley, the words punctuated with the sound of a fist slamming down on the table. “I know for a fact your mother’s still got a statue of Hathor in the basement, so if we’re gonna burn anyone, she’ll be first to go - not your mother? I’m the head of the temple’s budgetary committee. I can do anything I want! So shut your face hole, or I’ll shut it for you!” 

Abusing his position to threaten elderly women and the local clergy, noted Aziraphale. At last, all was right in the world. He didn’t need to hear any more - the temple budgetary committee was clearly an excellent fit for the demon’s skillset. He opened his eyes and stood up, dusting imaginary sand from his tunic. 

He walked slowly out of the temple complex, past the Records Hall and the other administrative buildings, towards the market.

The market was quite the opposite of the temple complex. It had shade, for one, cast by the roofs of merchants’ stalls, whether they were made of palm fronds or faded linen. Rows of those wooden stalls lined the main street, selling foodstuff, pottery, and textiles from rickety wooden tables. The market was not as crowded as he had seen it on other days, since the lunch break was over, but it was more well-attended as the temple. 

A small gaggle of children swarmed in the street, all bald but for the lock of hair on the side of their heads. One athletic-looking boy was blindfolded, and the others chanted, “Spit on Apep, kicking Apep, smiting Apep, fettering Apep,” as they danced around him. The boldest of the group, a girl, dared to prod him between the shoulderblades. The blindfolded boy spun around and swiped behind him, and the girl squealed and hopped backwards out of his reach. 

Aziraphale gave the children a wide berth as he passed them, having spotted Khapet’s stand at last. The baker slouched on a chair behind a table piled with loaves of bread, and he stood up to greet Aziraphale. “Ho, scribe,” said Khapet. “Come to cheat me out of my lawful earnings again?”

“I’ve come to try your pomegranate beer, actually,” said Aziraphale. 

“For here or the road?” 

“The road, I think,” said Aziraphale. 

“You got a wineskin? Else it’ll cost you extra.” 

Aziraphale reached into his bag and pulled out a leather wineskin that hadn’t been there a few moments prior, and handed it to Khapet along with a handful of copper pieces. 

“Oi, pomegranate beer for the cheating scribe,” grunted Khapet. He took Aziraphale’s money and made a show of counting the copper pieces, but he handed the wineskin to one of his apprentices, who filled it from a huge jug and handed back to the angel. 

“Thank you, good fellow,” said Aziraphale, and he took the wineskin back.

“Come back soon,” said Khapet unconvincingly, and he sat heavily back into his chair.

Aziraphale took a careful sip from the wineskin. The beer was warm, so he chilled the wineskin with a touch, and took a second drink. This time, he savoured the acidity as the beer slid over his tongue, and the coolness as it went down his throat. A food pairing might further enhance the depth of the pomegranate flavour. Unfortunately, he was not familiar with the local food offerings. 

Well. At least the solution to that dilemma was clear. He would sample all the foods available at the market. 

An hour or two later, he had decided that the pomegranate beer and warm, crusty fig-laced bread, spread with a soft, sharp cheese, made the best pairing. 

“I’ve never seen garlic in the cheese before,” he commented.

“Trade secret,” said the shopkeeper conspiratorially. 

Aziraphale deigned to comment that adding roasted garlic to the cheese hardly counted as a trade secret, but he bought another serving of the bread for the road. The shopkeeper wrapped it in grape leaves, and Aziraphale stowed it in his bag. Had Crowley ever tried the pomegranate beer with the fig bread? It was a pairing made in Heaven, if he was any judge. 

He spotted Crowley coming out of the temple of Aten at last, without any sign of the meeting room’s ideological struggle on his face. To the contrary, Crowley looked pleased with himself. 

Aziraphale climbed a ladder to the city rooftops, so that he could observe the demon unobtrusively. On the first day, the demon had said he was off for a routine temptation, but right now, it looked like Crowley was mostly in the mood for something to drink. He walked past Khapet’s loaves of bread and his beer, right towards a stand that sold what Aziraphale knew from personal experience was an extremely mediocre malt beer. 

While queuing, he struck up a conversation with the woman behind him. She wore a pleated white dress, a truly crass amount of wide gold bracelets, and a sun-disc amulet that marked her as a priestess of Aten. Aziraphale tried to eavesdrop on her conversation with Crowley, but the wind was stronger out in the market, and the voices were louder, with vendors barking out their wares and bargaining aggressively with potential buyers. He couldn’t pick out any individual words, so he focussed on their auras instead, which mingled together in a mixture of ambition, arrogance, and something else he couldn’t quite place, threading through it like blood in the water. The woman laughed, and Crowley passed her a mug of beer. 

He lost sight of them for a minute, as they finished their drinks and melded into the crowd, but he just tried to follow Crowley’s aura from the rooftop. It led him through the market, into an alleyway. Perhaps this was all part of the temptation? 

His suspicions were confirmed a few minutes later, when Aziraphale spotted him in an alleyway with the priestess. Her back was pressed against the wall, and her head was tilted back, as he whispered into her ear. One of her legs was twined around the demon’s hip, supported by his hand. His other hand was somewhere between them, where their tunics were rucked up.

Aziraphale suppressed a gasp and tore his eyes away. 

Of course he knew, in an abstract way, that demons were capable of that type of temptation. Lust was the third of the seven sins.

In theory, angels were physically capable of that kind of act too. They all had the parts for it. Genitals were part of a standard-issue corporation, meant to lend verisimilitude to the members of the heavenly host on Earth. Aziraphale generally did not find that it helped with some of the more fish-out-of-water types. Not everyone took naturally to a corporation. The humans would be tipped off to their inhumanity by their unblinking stares, or the way their mouths did not move when they spoke, or how their voices sounded like a choir of bells, rather than a lack of certain parts of the anatomy. 

He was not beholden to the physical impulses of his corporation. He did not need to go to the privy, and did not hunger, and did not thirst. Yet he ate and drank anyway, occasionally to excess. At first it had been purely out of curiosity, and later, because he had found he rather enjoyed the flora and fauna of Earth, especially when the flora was fermented and the fauna well-seasoned. 

And now he found himself curious about something else altogether. It wasn’t as if he weren’t familiar with it at all - Sodom and Gomorrah had been destroyed only a thousand years hence, and - well - the less said about that, the better. And despite what Khapet had suggested, he really wasn’t that interested in partaking of the pleasures offered in the House of Qetesh. 

But now he stole another glance back down at Crowley and the priestess, and the intensity on their faces, and he found himself feeling quite a bit more ambivalent about it this time around.

Aziraphale’s face grew warm, even as he averted his gaze a second time. He needed to focus on the Pharaoh’s exorcism and avert temporal disaster. He wished he’d never followed Crowley to the temple. He wished he’d lost track of Crowley in the market. And most of all, he wished -

He wished he’d seen nothing at all, particularly not the way Crowley’s grip left soft indents into the exposed flesh of the priestess’s leg, nor the way she touched the demon’s face possessively, nor the way that Crowley’s lips brushed against her ear. A breeze floated past his face, he heard the demon’s voice on the wind at last. He could not discern any individual words, but he could make out the meaning as clearly as if Crowley was standing right next to him.

Aziraphale unfurled his wings and flew upwards. Crowley turned his face a bit at the sound of wings beating overhead, but decided that he had seen nothing and turned his attention back to the priestess.

The angel flew faster than he had in centuries, beating his wings hard enough that the sound of voices in the city, the marketplace, and _especially_ the alleyway was entirely drowned out by the whistle of the wind between his feathers and the pound of the pulse in his head as he scythed a path through the sky. 

The Nile passed underneath him, a wide blue ribbon bordered on both sides by an expanse of green farmland. Eventually, the farmland gave way to the endless sandy dunes, and still, Aziraphale kept flying. 

The sun sank lower and lower in the sky. Aziraphale did not grow tired - how could he when his wings were no more flesh than starlight was fire? - so he pushed himself harder, trying to catch up with the sunset beyond the desert hills, and then _maybe _he’d finally forget what he had seen and heard -

But by the time the green light claimed him, he had not accomplished either.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. The Smite-the-Apep game is not real, but it could be!  
2\. So, yeah, the story is going _there._ At least temporarily.


	9. Clarity

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things begin to change.

“I don’t see what the problem is,” said Crowley.

Aziraphale, not expecting to come face-to-face with the demon again so soon, had a sudden coughing fit. Crowley thumped him on the back.

“There, there, try not to choke on your own tongue,” he said. 

“Urk,” said Aziraphale. He could feel his face reddening, and not just from the coughing. “Suppose it’s barely a problem, in the grand scheme of things,” he said. “With the economy booming and the, er, Kingdom at peace.”

“Exactly!” said Crowley in delight. “What’s a bit of religious fervour in comparison?” He bent down to the riverbank, picked up a small, flat stone, and then skipped it into the river.

“Twelve,” said Aziraphale, out of habit. 

“What’s that?” asked Crowley.

“Nevermind,” he said. “What have you got going on this afternoon?” The angel also selected a stone from the riverbank. 

“Just got a temptation to cross off the to-do list this afternoon. Then maybe I’ll go frighten housewives doing their laundry.” Crowley flicked his tongue at Aziraphale playfully.

“What kind of temptation?” asked Aziraphale, despite his best intentions. He tossed the rock across the river. It skipped four times. 

“Nice,” said the demon. “But I’m not telling you so you can thwart me again.” 

“It’s not so I can thwart you, I’ve just... well, what do you demons do on a day-to-day basis?”

“Probably a lot like what you angels do everyday, except the opposite.” Crowley nudged the rocks on the bank with his foot, and picked one up with dissatisfaction. “Ugh, they’re all so _round_.” 

Aziraphale recalled what he had done for the last couple weeks, and laughed. To his surprise, it was a real laugh - neither bitter nor hollow. “Humour me, demon,” he said.

“Well,” said Crowley slowly, as if trying to decide whether or not Aziraphale would use the information against him, and being unable to hold it in nonetheless. “I’ve got a few side projects on the go. Imaginary numbers, and brunch, to name a few.” 

Aziraphale didn’t want to hear how numbers like eleventeen and thirty-twelve could exist. “Brunch?” he said, instead. 

“Breakfast,” said Crowley, lifting one hand in front of him, face-up. Then, he raised his other palm, and said, “Lunch.” He brought his hands together, and wiggled his fingers, mimicking an explosion. “Brunch,” he concluded proudly. 

It sounded innocuous enough, but Aziraphale retained his suspicions nonetheless. “What’s the catch?” he said. 

“Well, people’ll skip breakfast knowing that brunch is coming, so they’ll be cranky all morning. Then during brunch itself they’ll overload on poached eggs and boozahol, making them bloated and useless for the entire afternoon. And they’ll pay through the nose and queue for the privilege because it’ll make them feel fancy. All while ruining it for everyone who wanted to eat a normal meal that entire morning.” Crowley threw his rock at the Nile. 

Aziraphale could tell it wasn’t a very good throw, even before the stone hit the water’s surface. It skipped twice and then went straight to the bottom of the river. “I see,” said the angel. Gears turned in his mind. Despite the demon’s insinuations, he had his doubts about how harmful could a good portmanteau be, especially when it combined poached eggs and cocktails. What did it matter if some people just couldn't handle a drink that early? It didn't mean _nobody_ ought to enjoy a gentle midday refreshment.

“Just wait,” said Crowley happily. “It’s going to be amazing. But not as amazing as _democracy._ Sometimes I go to taverns and suggest that maybe - just maybe - the common folk know what’s best for themselves. Invoking _common sense_, and _for the people_, and that kind of thing.”

“Democracy? Is that some kind of mental disease?” he said. 

“Er, it’s going to be a type of political system. One where they all decide what to do.”

“That’s a terrible idea. Once you get a group of five humans together, they can’t even decide where to go for lunch.”

“Or brunch,” said Crowley. He beamed at Aziraphale. “See, even you understand. Downstairs says nothing will come of it.”

“What do you mean by _even you?_”

“Well, you being an angel and all,” said Crowley. “Didn’t think you’d appreciate that kind of thing.”

“I don’t appreciate it at all,” said Aziraphale belatedly. Then, he took a deep breath and said, “How about individual temptations?”

“Eh, those are less fun,” said Crowley. “Those directives come straight from Head Office. This afternoon I’m supposed to tempt a priestess. Instil some cardinal sin in her.”

“And how are you planning to do that?” said Aziraphale, very neutrally.

“Depends what she really wants,” said Crowley. He shrugged. “It’s easiest to go with the flow when tempting someone. It’s hard to make them want something they don’t already want, deep inside.”

“Oh,” said Aziraphale faintly. “How does one go about finding out what someone really wants?” 

“Eh, I’ll improvise,” said the demon, missing the angel’s choice of pronouns completely. “But once you know, you know. Like I said, can’t tempt someone with something they don’t already want.” Crowley seemed to realize he was rambling, then, and turned to eye Aziraphale suspiciously. “Didn’t think you were interested in temptation,” 

“Er. Just trying to understand the human condition,” said Aziraphale. His insides churned uncomfortably, like it was hosting a troupe of travelling dancers. “They’re strange little things, aren’t they? Especially the Pharaoh.”

“We’ve been over that,” said Crowley. He was still smiling, but his tone was marginally more guarded, and he took a half-step back from the angel.

“I meant that the Pharaoh’s possessed,” said Aziraphale loudly, before Crowley could make any more retorts about the state of the nation. 

“That’s new,” noted Crowley. 

“He’s possessed by a mad time-travelling demon, out to set past wrongs right,” continued Aziraphale, now firmly in familiar territory again. His stomach settled a bit. “There’s a scroll that can stop him, and I’ll explain on the way to the docks,” 

Crowley clapped a hand on Aziraphale’s shoulder, and the angel’s insides resumed their choreographed dance routine. “You had me at time travel,” said the demon. 

**∽⧖∼ **

“And here, the author tried to form a ladder of loops, of sorts, to try and extend the reach of the loop. Which didn’t work. Neither did trying to enlisting an accomplice to perform the ritual within a pre-existing loop,” said Crowley. 

“And then what happened?” said Aziraphale listlessly. The two of them were in the angel’s house again. Lying in front of him was the sixth Sumerian tablet, which he’d liberated from its storeroom in the Records Hall. Inanna had commandeered the Bull of Heaven to answer Gilgamesh’s rejection. He’d read the passage a dozen times already, without absorbing a single word of it, as his stomach continued to tie itself into increasingly tighter knots. 

> _Inanna went to high heaven, and said, “My father, give me the Bull of Heaven to destroy Gilgamesh. Fill Gilgamesh with arrogance to his destruction, but if you refuse to give me the Bull of Heaven I will break in the doors of hell. I shall bring up the dead to eat the living, and they shall outnumber all the people of the world.”_

Crowley checked the scroll. “Does the Minoan eruption mean anything to you, angel?” 

> _And when Anu heard what Inanna had said, he gave her the Bull of Heaven to lead by the halter down to Uruk. _

“Earth to Aziraphale,” said Crowley.

The angel started. “Eh?” he said.

“I said, does the Minoan eruption mean anything to you,” repeated Crowley impatiently.

“Oh,” said Aziraphale. “Head Office mentioned in an all-departments bulletin. Wiped out a whole civilization, didn’t it? Nasty bit of business.” 

“It wasn’t officially sanctioned,” said Crowley. “Can’t damn souls if they’re already dead. But the point of all this is that nobody can start a loop while within a loop already. Otherwise the time-space continuum gets too wibbly-wobbly and _implodes_.” He emphasized the last word with a clench of his fist. 

“But someone could start a loop after ending the last one?” said Aziraphale. 

“If you could find enough sacrifices at every point in the timeline,” said Crowley. “Which could be a bit, eh, logistically troublesome without some kind of four-dimensional supply chain.” 

“That’s convenient,” said Aziraphale. “I didn’t fancy sitting here to make recursion diagrams with string.” 

“I’m getting the feeling you don’t fancy sitting here at all,” said Crowley. “Anybody home?” He rapped his knuckles on the angel’s skull. 

“My apologies,” said Aziraphale, making a token attempt to shoo Crowley’s hand away. “Perhaps we should take a break?” he ventured. 

“Got something in mind?”

“Ever tried Khapet’s pomegranate beer?” asked Aziraphale. He rolled the scroll back up and tucked it into his bag. Yes, a drink would do nicely to settle his nerves and return him to a more fruitful frame of mind. 

“Can’t say I have,” said Crowley.

“Then it’s settled,” said Aziraphale decisively. 

**∽⧗∼ **

The angel and the demon stumbled back into the house, several hours later. 

“Think Khapet’s beer was best, after all, especially with _that_ bread with _that_ cheese - the pomegranate flavour was to die for,” raved Crowley.

“I knew you’d like them,” said Aziraphale. 

They’d sampled Khapet’s pomegranate beer, but then Crowley had insisted he knew a better vendor, and Aziraphale had disagreed. So they’d had to set up an impromptu taste test, which they’d had to redo when Crowley insisted that they ought to make it a _blind_ taste test, after which Aziraphale accused Crowley of misremembering the order of the drinks, and then they’d had to repeat the whole ordeal, for _scientific rigour_, of course, and then with some modest food pairings -

All in all, it had been a productive afternoon, and the knot in his stomach had finally uncoiled - 

He nearly turned his ankle on the threshold and steadied himself with one hand on the doorframe and the other on the front of Crowley’s tunic, nearly taking the demon down with him.

“Ssssssteady, now,” said Crowley. He tried to straighten them both up and succeeded only in stumbling against the wall of Aziraphale’s living room instead, one hand on the doorframe and the other one on Aziraphale’s arm.

Aziraphale pulled himself upright with the fabric of Crowley’s tunic, at last. 

Their culinary tour of the Akhetaten market had dulled Aziraphale’s senses to a pleasant muzziness, but he was very aware of how close Crowley’s face was to his own. His own skin thrummed with nerves, and his insides had resumed their infernal dance, obliterating thought with a lurching, restless roil.

The demon’s pupils were dilated, nearly round, but the slivers of iris around them were golden in the dying light. 

A sudden clarity descended on the angel. It was the clarity that shows drunks God in the vastness of the night sky or salvation in a bowl of soup. It was the clarity that illuminates the shortest path from one point to another, and damn all the brambles in between. It was the clarity that whispers - no, shouts - _it could be that easy, you need only take one more step, if only, if only - _

He didn’t have to listen. And somewhere, deep inside, a voice like Gabriel’s shouted, _remember who you are_. He could listen to that voice instead. But he was also stuck in a time loop that wiped away every Tuesday afternoon. Why _shouldn’t_ he find out what happened next? 

So as the walls of his living room spun in unfocused glory around them, lit by the rosy rays of the setting sun, he raised his face to Crowley’s, and kissed him. 

The demon’s limbs stiffened, as if he couldn’t decide what to do with them, and Aziraphale feared he’d misjudged - but only for a moment, before Crowley put his hands on Aziraphale’s waist and kissed him back. 

It was as if a fire had been lit within him, burning away all fear and doubt and leaving nothing but a sense of blazing purpose. Aziraphale smoothed one of his hands from Crowley’s chest, over his shoulder, fingers trying to find skin, but only getting lost in the ridiculous pleats of his tunic. 

The demon broke off the kiss first. “If you wanted to get in my kilt, you could have just asked,” said Crowley. “Nevermind about that time-traveller rubbish.” He bent his neck to kiss the angel’s throat.

“Could I?” said Aziraphale, towards his ceiling. He found the clasp that held Crowley’s tunic together at the front, and undid it by touch. The linen fell from the demon’s shoulders to hang loosely from his hips. Beneath, Crowley’s skin was warm and smooth, and he slid his hand around his bare shoulder.

“Hmm,” hummed Crowley, against his skin. “Well, only if you asked politely.” The demon pushed himself off the wall, spinning the angel around. Crowley stood too upright for Aziraphale’s taste, so Aziraphale arched his back, slightly, just to feel the demon’s weight against him. 

That had the effect of bringing their hips together in a jolt of sensation. A gasp escaped Crowley, and a strange heat threaded through the demon’s aura, like blood in the water. The demon always found Aziraphale’s buttons to push when they argued. It was gratifying to know that now it was Crowley who was temporarily struck speechless. “You wouldn’t know polite if it hit you in the face,” he said, aiming for _vicious_ but landing somewhere around _shaky_, and kissed Crowley again, tasting pomegranates. “You’re incapable of _polite_.” With his free hand, he traced the curve of the demon’s spine, and felt the demon inhale against his mouth, a little puff of warm air. 

Aziraphale decided that, yes, he quite liked their reversal of fortunes right then. 

“Really, angel? That wasn’t polite,” said Crowley, a bit unsteadily. 

“It was more than you deserve,” said Aziraphale. He slid his hand down to Crowley’s hip, pressing his fingers into flesh harder than the way he remembered the demon had touched the priestess. Not hard enough to bruise, enough to make little dents in an expanse of skin.

“And what do I deserve?” said Crowley darkly. The demon stepped even closer, somehow, even though there was hardly any space between them, until one of his legs was nestled between Aziraphale’s own. He loomed tall over the angel, and one of his hands was entwined in the angel’s hair, with gentleness that his voice belied. 

He tilted Aziraphale’s head backwards, and the angel had to crane his neck up to meet Crowley’s gaze. “You deserve -” began Aziraphale. He tried to summon up something sharp and cutting, but he was grasping blindly in a pleasant red haze, and the words he wanted were nowhere to be found. He tried again. “You deserve -” 

“More importantly, what do _you_ deserve?” interrupted Crowley. Aziraphale groaned, then, as Crowley closed long fingers around him, and he scrabbled to find purchase on the skin of the demon’s back. 

“You’re not playing fair, you cheat,” said the angel breathlessly, when he could form words again. 

“Takes one to know one. Unless you’d rather not play at all,” Crowley suggested, with a smirk that undercut any concern inherent in the question. 

Besides, the question was inane to the extent that it merited no response but to pull the demon’s head down for another kiss. To which Crowley responded by doing something clever with his fingers, building the tempo relentlessly. 

And when Aziraphale ran his free hand down Crowley’s leg, the demon moaned outright, and the sound was enough to send Aziraphale over the edge, just as the sun set - 

**∽⧖∼ **

“I don’t see what the problem is,” said Crowley.

Aziraphale blinked in the sudden brightness of the midday sun. He felt himself reddening again. “Er,” he said. 

“The economy is booming. The Kingdom’s at peace. A bit of monotheism never hurt anybody.” continued Crowley.

The angel stared studiously downward and shuffled his feet, trying to fill his thoughts with the light of Heaven, and the music of celestial choirs, anything except for Crowley and his long limbs on the riverbank, going through the steps of a well-worn dance. 

Crowley paused, and looked at Aziraphale strangely. “Bast got your tongue, angel?” 

“Nothing to worry about,” said the angel. It came out a bit squeaky.

Crowley bent down to the riverbank, and picked up a small, flat stone. “That’s right. Nothing to worry about at all,” he said, glancing back at Aziraphale. “Don’t know why we bother having this ‘State of the Nation’ argument every time we meet. You complain about my undue influence in the administration, I reassure you that the eighteenth dynasty is a thousand times more stable than the seventeenth, and then we all calm down and go our separate ways.” 

“A bit pointless,” agreed Aziraphale, staring at the crocodiles in the distance. He was grateful that his voice had leveled out. 

“Exactly,” said Crowley. He threw his stone into the river. 

“Twelve,” said Aziraphale. They watched it skip twelve times across the water. “A record.” Then, he picked up a stone of his own, and flicked it towards the ibises as well. 

“Five,” counted Crowley, and then he turned to Aziraphale. “How did you know -” 

“Time loop,” said Aziraphale succinctly. The direct method seemed to work best in securing Crowley’s assistance in the translation of the scroll. “Come on. There’s a delivery to intercept; I can explain on the way.” He turned and began to walk towards the docks, knowing that Crowley would follow. He chalked that up to the demon’s natural curiosity and propensity to get tangled up in unsuitable company. It was why they’d all Fallen in the first place. Probably. 

But something was different at the harbour today. Small groups of guards milled around on the docks, skulking around barrels and harrassing deckhands. 

“Who’re they?” said Crowley.

“Razikael’s goons, I think,” said Aziraphale, peering into the distance. “Change of plans.” 

There had been one or two afternoons where he’d forgotten to intercept the scroll at the docks before playing dice at the tavern. And during those afternoons, Menet had been in the tavern as well, instead of at the harbour. And without Menet, the harbourmaster had undoubtedly assigned the delivery to a marginally more competent messenger. And that messenger would have delivered the seventh scroll straight into the Pharaoh’s hands. 

And since he was the only one of two who retained a memory of all the previous Tuesday afternoons, Razikael had to have realized that Aziraphale had something to do with the scroll’s misplacement that very first afternoon... 

The angel had always felt lucky that his address was a well-kept secret. Petitioners from the Records Hall could not find him in the labyrinth of hundreds of near-identical houses in the north end of Akhetaten, and now, neither could the Pharaoh’s guards, seeing as they had been dispatched to mill around the harbour instead of storming his house on the riverbank. His position had not been completely compromised. But he had to be careful. 

“We can take them on, angel,” said Crowley. 

“No, we can’t,” said Aziraphale. “Razikael has them shielded.” 

“Oh,” said Crowley. “There’s still two of us and, oh, only a dozen of them -” 

“She’ll know something’s off if they return with teeth missing, or if they don’t return at all,” said Aziraphale. “Then next loop, there’ll be a whole troop to fight.” 

“Why not send all of them out right away?” said Crowley. 

Aziraphale shrugged. “Protecting herself, probably. There’s guards swarming around the Palace. Let’s not tangle with any of them, either.” 

He spread his wings and took flight, high over the docks and the Nile. Crowley followed, on glossy black feathers.

They rose upwards on pillars of warm air spiralling upwards from the desert sands, like hawks in a gyre, looking for a southbound barge. Crowley spotted it first. 

“That it, down there?” 

Aziraphale squinted. “I think so,” he said. 

In response, Crowley folded his wings in and plummeted towards Earth in freefall. The barge rushed closer in view. At the last moment, he snapped his wings back out and caught the air again, landing on the barge without splintering the deck. The angel landed somewhere behind him. 

Aziraphale didn’t wait for the captain or the sailors to acknowledge his presence, just walked right to the chest where he knew the scrolls were held. He opened the chest and dug through it, finding the scroll right at the bottom. Then, he tucked it into his scribe’s bag and turned to take off again. 

“M’lady,” the captain said, bowing low. And then to Crowley, he said, “M’lord.” 

“I’m not your lady,” said Aziraphale to the captain. He was a weatherbeaten stick of a man, with ropy muscles and callused hands. Only his golden crocodile-shaped amulet distinguished him from the other sailors. Aziraphale eyed it distastefully. The local god of the Nile, Sobek, had a crocodile head. Aziraphale couldn’t understand how a nominally protective deity would take the form of an animal so vicious and bloodthirsty. 

“Just go with it,” whispered Crowley. “You’re Ma’at, lady of truth and justice. I’m -” he glanced at his wings, unsure of where he fit in the pantheon. “I’m Thoth, your husband,” the demon concluded uneasily. 

“This is ridiculous,” said Aziraphale, and he made to leave the barge again. 

Crowley elbowed him in the chest before he could take flight. “Maybe you ought to say something to him,” he suggested. 

“Good idea,” said Aziraphale. He turned back to the captain. “You’re going to forget any of this happened,” he commanded, with a touch of power to ensure that the entire crew heard him as well. 

“Aye aye, m’lady,” said the captain obediently. 

“I meant to say something about the goons back there,” said Crowley, jerking his head in the direction from which they had come. 

“No,” said Aziraphale. 

“You’re the angel, this is your_ job_,” said Crowley.

“No,” repeated Aziraphale. “I’ll explain on the way back.” Aziraphale spread his wings, feeling the push of wind against them, and he leapt forwards, letting the air buoy him upwards. He spiralled towards the clouds on a rising thermal. Crowley followed. 

“The welcoming committee’ll be glad to see them,” said Crowley. 

Aziraphale rounded on Crowley in midair. “If we had redirected their ship, then Razikael would _know_ that someone had intervened,” he said. 

“Well, who else could have intervened, right?” said Crowley. “Unless there’s someone else in on the time loop that you haven’t mentioned?” 

“It’s just me,” said Aziraphale. “But this way, it’ll buy us more time if she can’t confirm which ship arrives with the scroll. Confusing the enemy can only be a good thing.” 

“That explains a lot,” grumbled Crowley. “But it’s a Heaven of a gambit for the crew.” 

“It’s not like they’d stay dead,” said Aziraphale. “It doesn’t really count. It’s not - real, you understand?” 

“It feels pretty real right now,” said Crowley. And then he dropped into a spiralling dive before Azirpahale could answer, a vortex of black feathers against the Nile’s blue.

_Show-off_, thought Aziraphale.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, that happened. I tried to write an E-rated fic (because it's _traditional_ for someone stuck in a time loop, see?) but I couldn't bring myself to do it. It's just as well, because despite what this chapter entailed, this story is _supposed_ to be about friendship.


	10. A Litany of Sin

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things go poorly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you didn't like the last chapter, this one might be more your speed.

“... and based on this passage, I think the temporal reach of the ritual is proportional to the caster’s power. And while the size of the sacrifice doesn’t matter, it _is_ potentially a bottleneck when the caster is very powerful.” said Crowley. 

“Mmhm,” murmured Aziraphale. The sixth Sumerian tablet lay in front of him on the kitchen table, where Gilgamesh and Enkidu were engaged in battle with the Bull of Heaven. Words bled together like ink on wet papyrus, and he passed from sentence to sentence without taking any of it in. 

Crowley checked his notes. “I don’t remember reading anything about a sacrifice before.” 

“Of course not,” said Aziraphale absently. He watched the demon shuffling through a thin sheaf of notes full of doodles, geometric swirls of ink blooming along the margins of the papyrus. Long fingers flipped between the sheets, more deftly than any of the scribes in the Records Hall. 

“Wake up, angel,” said Crowley, and he snapped those fingers in front of Aziraphale’s nose. 

The angel jumped. “You said something about a sacrifice,” he said guiltily. 

“Yes,” said Crowley. “At least twice.” He pushed himself away from the table. “Ugh. There’s no point to any of this if you’re not paying attention.” He rolled the scroll up and pressed it into Aziraphale’s hands. “Go clear your head. Shouldn’t be hard, seeing as there’s only cotton in there.”

Aziraphale made to take the scroll. His nerves betrayed him as he fumbled the parchment into his bag. “What do you like to do to clear your head?” he asked Crowley. 

“All sorts of things,” said Crowley. He began ticking them off on his fingers. “Tavern’s always good. Or a nice, long nap. Y’know, the simple things in life.” 

“I should have expected your favourite sins were gluttony and sloth,” said Aziraphale. 

“Don’t forget pride. I do like pride,” said Crowley. 

“Greed?” 

“I think greed is more up your avenue,” said Crowley. He swept his arm at Aziraphale’s collection of reading materials. 

“Touché,” said Aziraphale. 

“Why bother, angel? It’ll all be dust in a few hundred years. Nothing lasts forever.” 

“They’re better off in my possession than with some yahoo at the Records Hall.” 

“Ah, yes. The Records Hall, wherein you’ve commandeered a storeroom for the _rest _of your collection.”

“It’s a temporary arrangement,” said Aziraphale defensively. 

“If by temporary, you mean you’ll soon annex a larger storeroom for your kingdom -” 

“No, by temporary, I expect that larger quarters will soon be built for the Pharaoh’s overseers, and then I’ll be able to free up the storeroom completely,” said Aziraphale defensively. He turned the topic of discussion back towards the demon. “How do you feel about envy?” he said. 

“A pain in the ass for everyone involved,” said Crowley. He stretched his arms in front of him, before draping them over the table again. “Wrath, on the other hand, can be quite cathartic under the right circumstances.”

Aziraphale swallowed. “And how about lust?” 

Crowley turned to look directly at him. “Lust is good too,” he said neutrally. But he must have noticed the tension in Aziraphale’s face. “Do you disapprove, angel?” he added, twisting the epithet into a goad. 

Aziraphale replied, “Not quite,” and was proud to hear that he’d kept most of the tremour out of his voice. 

“What do you mean?” challenged Crowley, a mad glittering look in his eyes, like a predator who’d spotted his next meal. 

“I mean,” said Aziraphale, “this.” Then, his eyes fixed on the demon’s, he reached across the table, picked up one of Crowley’s hands, and pressed his lips to the knuckles, with a flick of the tongue for good measure. 

Crowley jerked his hand away, but it was with no small satisfaction that Aziraphale saw the demon’s pupils blown wide in his yellow eyes. “The time loop stuff - the scroll - it’s gone to your head at last,” said Crowley. “You’ve finally lost your blessed mind.” 

“I’m in full possession of my faculties,” said Aziraphale, primness creeping into his voice despite himself. He should have gone to the tavern, it had been so much easier the last time - 

“Of course you are. Then I must be the one imagining things.”

“You’re not -” said Aziraphale, but Crowley’s hand tightened on his own before he could pull away, and he saw a small smile appear on the edge of the demon’s lips. 

“- in which case, I imagine I’d do something like this -” said Crowley. He leaned in to return the kiss on Aziraphale’s mouth. 

Aziraphale closed his eyes and moved his free hand around to Crowley’s back, and then he opened his mouth. With detachment, he noted that the demon didn’t taste like pomegranates this time, but something like spiced wine remained on his tongue. 

Crowley broke away first, to inhale a breath he didn’t need. “Maybe not imagining things,” he muttered. Aziraphale took that opportunity to get out of his own chair, and cross the room to straddle Crowley’s lap, instead. The chair was wide and armless, and the edges of the seat dug into this thighs, but he didn’t care. “And to think that I’m the demon,” said Crowley, with a tiny laugh. 

“That’s because you are,” said Aziraphale, and he slid one of his hands up beneath Crowley’s tunic, running it up the skin of his chest. “Don’t forget that.” 

“I couldn’t forget if I wanted to,” said Crowley. “You, on the other hand -” His breath hitched, as Aziraphale shifted his hips. 

“Do tell me what I’ve forgotten,” said Aziraphale. 

“Last week, we were at each other’s throats.” In response to that, Aziraphale leaned forward to taste the hollow of the demon’s throat. “And today you’re -” 

“Go on,” said Aziraphale. There was no alcohol in his bloodstream, but fearlessness coursed through his veins alongside perfect clarity nonetheless. He felt like he had nothing to lose, like he was moving through a dream.

“You’re - we’re -” stammered Crowley. His hands were somewhere at his sides, as if he was trying rather hard not to touch the angel. 

“Is that a problem?” said Aziraphale. He pulled away from the demon a bit, so that he could meet Crowley’s eye, but also so that Crowley could push him off if he really wanted to.

Crowley wavered for a moment. Then a flinty look crossed his face, and Aziraphale could see that recklessness had won out. “No,” said the demon, and he finally brought his hands up to Aziraphale, one on his waist, and the other to his face. “But I do wonder what brought this on.”

“Someone said I ought to loosen up a bit. Expand my horizons. That sort of thing,” said Aziraphale, still watching Crowley’s expression carefully.

“Friend of yours, that?” said Crowley. 

_No,_ screamed the voice in his head, but Aziraphale had gotten rather used to ignoring it lately. “In a manner of speaking, perhaps,” he said. He rolled his hips experimentally, and the demon made a rough, throaty noise that echoed in the angel’s ears, like the peal of celestial bells. Too late, Aziraphale realized that there was too much fabric in the way, trapped between their bodies and the chair. He tried to shimmy out of his tunic, but when he got his arm stuck inside the neckhole of the tunic, he gave up and piled their clothes in a corner of the room with a wave of his hand.

“We both know you haven’t got any friends down here,” said the demon. “Maybe you came up with this all by yourself.” Crowley made to get up, gently pushing Aziraphale off his lap, until they both stood in the living room. “Got curious about the opposition, did you?” he said, and he kissed Aziraphale and steered him backwards into the table. “Clever angel.” The demon’s voice was low and dark and warm, and the words sent a frisson down Aziraphale’s spine. 

Aziraphale became even less inclined to clarify who’d started what, especially when Crowley put one knee on the table and leaned forwards, his weight forcing the angel to lie back. “Perhaps I did get curious,” said Aziraphale. He looked up at Crowley. “But so did you.” He settled for bringing one of his hands around the back of Crowley’s neck and pulling his face down towards his own. “Your sort certainly aren’t well known for your, ah, incuriosity,” he murmured, and kissed Crowley again, relishing the demon’s small gasp against his mouth. 

“For someone who seems to avoid _my sort_ six days out of seven, you know an awful lot about demons,” said Crowley, the next chance he had to speak. 

“It’s inevitable in this line of work,” said Aziraphale. The demon’s face was too close to comfortably concentrate on. He closed his eyes, enveloped in the demon’s aura, a heady anticipatory haze. _One of these days, I’ll tell him to tighten up his shields_, he thought. Maybe at a time when the demon’s lips weren’t marking a path up the side of his neck, or when his hand wasn’t brushing up against -

“That’s debatable,” said Crowley, and then he pulled away. Aziraphale tried to follow, pushing himself up on his elbows, but Crowley held him back, with a hand. “You stay put,” he said.

“Don’t tell me what to -” began Aziraphale, but Crowley took him into his mouth, and there were no more words - only a maddening rhythm and a white-hot heat. He clenched his hands in fists, trying to maintain control for as long as possible, even as Crowley ran his tongue over him. Crowley seemed to take pity, a bit, and took one of Aziraphale’s hands into his own, even as the other nudged the angel’s legs further apart. 

He came in a long sigh that displaced a thousand years of entrenched thought with a flood of blissful nothing, knowing naught but the feel of one of the demon’s hands on his thigh, and the other clenched in his own grasp, only letting go once he’d stopped trembling. 

Crowley released him at last, looking smug, until the feeling returned to Aziraphale’s legs. He slid off the table and knelt in front of the demon, hands neatly-folded in his lap. He ignored the hardness of the tile floor, and the theological implications of the act. Rational thought needed not return for a few minutes more.

“You don’t have to -” said Crowley breathlessly. 

“Neither did you,” said Aziraphale. He was an angel, and he had no intention of letting the demon go without reciprocity. So, he pulled back and slid his mouth over Crowley. The angle was awkward, but he was still inordinately pleased that the demon’s knees buckled, and he gripped the table’s edge with both hands. 

He began a slow rhythm, slow because he couldn’t quite figure out how to move easily, and slow because he wanted to do it properly. And he knew that he was doing it properly, because despite Crowley’s vice-grip on the table, his hips moved involuntarily, and his aura radiated overwhelming_ need. _

When the demon came, it was with a strangled sob. It sounded like _breaking_ \- a clay jug of beer shattering on the ground, waves crashing on a rocky shore, a heart filled to bursting. Aziraphale knew what all of those things sounded like, but he’d never heard anything like the sound Crowley made right then, a sound that echoed through his head even as the demon let go of the table and slid slowly to rest on the ground beside him. 

**∽⧗∼**

They lay in a damp, messy heap on the floor for a while, with Aziraphale’s head resting on Crowley’s arm, before the demon broke the silence. “Didn’t know you were into that kind of thing,” he said, facing Aziraphale. 

“I didn’t know, either,” said Aziraphale. He turned his gaze upwards to the ceiling. “It’s, er, a recent interest. I’ve had a lot of time to think while stuck in the time loop.” 

“This Tuesday seems to have been particularly enlightening for you.” 

“You could say that,” sighed Aziraphale. 

“Huh,” said Crowley. “Well, we all learn new things every day.” 

“Really?” 

“Last week, a fisherman told me that crocodiles cry when they eat,” said Crowley. “Don’t know why, though - do you think it’s because they feel sorry for their dinner?” 

Aziraphale stiffened up a bit at the mention of crocodiles. “I hadn’t noticed when they were eating me,” he said. 

“Sorry, angel,” said the demon, uncomfortably. “For pushing you into the river.” 

“It was quite painful,” said Aziraphale. But he felt uncharacteristically merciful today, so he added, “But also unusually quick. No permanent harm done.” 

“Suppose not,” said Crowley. 

“You’ve never apologized for it before,” said Aziraphale. 

“Well, I wasn’t sure how to bring it up,” said Crowley. “Or how _I’m sorry that I didn’t realize that the bank was higher than it looked or that there were crocodiles at the bottom _was going to come across.” 

“Apology accepted,” said Aziraphale. “What’s a bit of discorporation between hereditary enemies, anyway?” 

“Exactly. Hereditary enemies. I’ll have to remember that one. We’re _hereditary enemies,_” he repeated, as he rolled onto his side and pulled Aziraphale closer, into the warm glow of his aura.

“It wouldn’t do to forget,” said Aziraphale, but he didn’t resist when Crowley kissed him again. 

**∽⧖∼ **

Aziraphale didn’t shirk his duties every loop. But every couple days, he deferred his responsibilities halfway through the afternoon to succumb to temptation. After all, God took the seventh day off. Aziraphale wasn’t quite as efficient, so he allowed himself intermittent breaks for productivity’s sake.

“Hope we don’t regret this tomorrow,” said Crowley, after one such respite. “With me being me, and you being you.”

“Why would we?” murmured Aziraphale, into the demon’s chest. 

“Meaning that - uh - you’d never seemed to be interested in this kind of thing before. At all,” said Crowley. He hesitated before continuing. “Particularly with me.” 

“Not normally. But this Tuesday has been rather irregular, with the loop and all,” said Aziraphale, and he gestured vaguely at a space beyond Crowley’s head. “I’ve been, er. Broadening my horizons.” 

“Ah. So is this a one-off or an ongoing exploration? If it’s the latter, I’ve picked up a few interesting things over the years -” 

Aziraphale’s insides squirmed, and not at Crowley’s invitation. “Er. It’s sort of both. I mean, it’s not really a one-off for me, even though it’s sort of a one-off for you. Possibly a none-off after the temporal anomaly’s been resolved.” 

“I see,” said the demon slowly. “Because of the time loop?” 

“Yes,” agreed Aziraphale, in relief. “Because of the time loop.” 

Then Crowley took a breath, and said, “Would you ever do it if you weren’t trapped in the loop?” 

“Let’s not put the horse before the cart, I haven’t worked out a way to stop Razikael yet -” 

“Would you have?” 

“- we’re not finished translating the scroll, after all, and since discorporation’s right out, I’m wondering if we ought to revert to using Holy Water after all, nevermind the mess it’d make -”

“Sod the time loop, and answer the question,” said Crowley. He pushed himself up onto his elbows, displacing the angel’s head from its temporary pillow. 

“No,” Aziraphale admitted.

A look of something like dismay passed over Crowley’s face, but was gone as quickly as it had appeared. “Because you know you’d regret it,” he said. “Because you’re an angel.” 

“It’s more complicated than that!” 

“No, I’ve got the gist of it. I’m good enough for a scroll translation and roll in the hay today, but not tomorrow.”

“Er,” said Aziraphale. “Technically, tomorrow will still be today -” 

“Playing dumb doesn’t suit you,” said Crowley furiously. He stood up and stalked into the corner where their clothes were piled, and violently yanked his own tunic from the pile. “You know, I think I’d have been alright if it really was a one-time thing, but -” 

“Well, you’re the one who brought up potentially regretting it.” 

“It’s one thing to wonder if taking the opposition to the metaphorical bed was a mistake, but knowing that you wouldn’t even have considered this outside a time loop - that’s really something, angel.” Crowley grappled with the folds of his tunic, nearly tearing the pleated linen as he spoke.

“What, and you wouldn’t if you were trapped in a time loop?” 

Crowley seemed to struggle with both his clothing and the double negative for a moment. “Maybe I would,” he finally said. “But not with you. Definitely not - not with you. It’s too - I don’t know.”

“You seemed to rather like it just now -” 

“_Like_’s not the problem!” The demon finally pulled his tunic over his head, and rummaged through the pile of clothes for his belt, tossing the angel’s clothes across the room in the process. His robe landed on the table, and Aziraphale stood up to fetch it. 

“So you _do_ regret it.” 

“Yes. No. I don’t know. I thought -” Crowley faltered and fiddled with his belt.

“Thought what?” said Aziraphale. He pulled his own robe on, getting his arm stuck in the neckhole before correcting course. 

“Nevermind,” said Crowley. “It doesn’t seem to _matter_ to you what I think.” 

“It does,” said Aziraphale weakly. 

“No, it doesn’t. Yesterday, you wouldn’t even look me in the eye at the market. Pretty much just ran for it when I waved. We only even met on the riverbank today because it’s Tuesday. Why even bother with Tuesdays?” 

“The point of Tuesdays is to resolve any outstanding points of order from the previous Tuesday,” said Aziraphale, but he could feel that wasn’t the complete truth. 

“Right. And when you brought up the time loop, and the scroll, out of the blue, I thought you might finally be tired of arguing about the blasted Pharaoh. So I humoured you. Then I realized there might be something to it when we finally unrolled the scroll. But it just never occurred to me until now that -” He ran his hand through his hair in distress. “How _convenient_ for you to have a pet demon to conscript,” he spat. 

“You were right there when the afternoon restarted,” Aziraphale pointed out. 

“I wish I hadn’t been. I wish I’d taken Downstairs’ offer to transfer to Mexico when your Head Office’s spirit-building exercises went to your head and we could hardly carry out a civil conversation anymore.Then you’d have to take advantage of whichever other local demon got saddled with the Egypt assignment. Heard Daeva’s in Nubia nowadays. You could have gotten _her_ to translate. Maybe taken up with her, too,” continued Crowley. 

“You feel like I took advantage of you?” said Aziraphale. He now felt slightly sick. 

“I don’t know!” shouted Crowley. 

“Just try to explain -” 

“I can’t even begin to explain,” said Crowley. “Especially not to you. You’re an angel. You’re supposed to know better.” He shook his head with a hollow laugh. “No, that wasn’t right. _I’m_ supposed to know better.”

Shame flushed through Aziraphale. _This isn’t how it was supposed to go_, he thought, and then he felt even worse for having thought that at all.

“Do me a favour,” said Crowley, as he pulled his beaded collar from the ground and clasped it around his neck, “and try not to pull this shit again.”

The demon didn’t wait for a response, and stormed out of the angel’s house.

The walls pressed in on Aziraphale. He pulled his shoes out of the corner, and made to follow Crowley. He made it out of the house before realizing that the demon had a minute’s head start, and that he hadn’t a clue where Crowley had gone. 

For lack of better options, Aziraphale trudged along the path by the river, towards the harbour. 

The first Tuesday at the riverbank had been an accident, early on in their respective secondments from Sumeria to Egypt. They’d argued about who ought to move aside and cede influence over the region. Aziraphale rationalized that nothing would get _done_ with both of them futzing around, and that they should flip a coin and the loser would request reassignment to Nubia. Crowley had insisted the humidity of Nubia didn’t sit well with his scales, and that if anyone should have Egypt, it ought to be him. Aziraphale refused, seeing as written language wouldn’t emerge from that region for another thousand years at least. 

Then Aziraphale had remembered an urgent conference call and they’d parted ways, promising to resolve the question of who got Egypt in a few Tuesdays. 

Hundreds of years later, they’d still not figured out the answer to that question. But they’d gotten into a few fistfights early on, culminating in Crowley pushing Aziraphale off a bank into a small group of crocodiles. Their next meeting, Aziraphale had smited Crowley into next month. 

It wasn’t a productive or civilized way of resolving an argument, so after everybody had calmed down and settled into their new bodies, they’d laid down some ground rules. Philosophical disagreements were not to be resolved with flaming swords or hellfire or holy water. Poisoning was also excluded, since Aziraphale had been developing a taste for human cuisine around that time and would prefer to indulge in his hobbies without getting discorporated. Discorporation by wildlife was right out. 

They’d had much more productive Tuesdays after that. But the question of who got Egypt remained an ongoing issue. He hadn’t realized that Crowley’d received an offer to transfer to Mexico. The locals there would revere an immortal serpent - nay, a _feathered_ serpent. What had compelled him to stay in Egypt? Was it pride? Crowley _should_ have left, concluded Aziraphale bleakly. The demon would have been happier across the sea, far, far away from Aziraphale.

He was approaching the harbour, now, but even at a distance, he could see that something was wrong. There was a crowd gathered in the open, despite the searing mid-afternoon sun, buzzing with fear. He pushed his way through the throng and saw three men on the ground. Two were battered corpses. One was the captain of the barge from Thebes, recognizable by his Sobek amulet. The second man’s face was unidentifiable, his head caved in on one side. 

But the third man was still alive and unhurt, though his tunic was smeared with drying brown streaks. 

Khapet knelt in the bloody dust, Menet’s misshapen head in his lap. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Also, this is my favourite chapter. Extra kudos to SilchasRuin for helping me make Crowley's response more confusing and painful than in my first draft. Check out her fic - [The Devil You Know](https://archiveofourown.org/works/19312162/chapters/45935500) for a humourous take on Possessed!Harry.


	11. Long Shadows

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aziraphale gets guilted into helping with a funeral.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is dedicated to everyone who's buried someone who wasn't supposed to die first, because funerals are terrible.

“Khapet,” said Aziraphale. 

The baker looked up. Dried tear-tracks ran down his cheeks, but the man was long past crying. “Oh, it’s you,” he said dully. “Come to cheat me out of my coin again? I’d love to play, but you’ve come at a bad time.” 

“What happened?” hurried Aziraphale. Was this the first time that Menet had died? Had Menet been attacked in the first loop, as well? - 

“We were supposed to meet for dinner,” said Khapet. “Said he had a delivery scheduled, so he went and delivered it, I guess. He promised to meet me right at my market stall afterwards.” The baker drew a harsh breath. “Went looking for him. You’d never know by looking at him, but Menet’s not one to miss a meal. Ma said he’d eat us out of house and home, but she always made sure he got seconds. Ma’s not here, though. Pa neither. It’s just us - me left.” Khapet spoke it all in a flat, raspy voice, and somehow, it sounded more terrible than a scream. Maybe he had screamed himself hoarse when he’d discovered Menet’s body earlier that afternoon, when Aziraphale had been - 

\- no, he _wasn’t _going to think about that now, he was an _angel_, he had a _duty_ \- 

“Is that when you found him?” prompted Aziraphale, as gently as he could. 

“Yeah,” said Khapet, in the same dead voice. “They said the Pharaoh’s personal guard brought him out, already dead. Just dumped him in the sand like a sack of grain. But I know he didn’t do nothing to deserve this.” 

The pieces fell into place, and the angel felt like he might throw up. “No, he didn’t do anything to deserve this,” said Aziraphale, his heart heavy. 

“You know him?” said Khapet.

“He brought me a delivery, once or twice,” said Aziraphale. All the afternoons he’d spent at the tavern with Crowley, Khapet, and Menet were afternoons where Menet never left for the harbour, and thus Menet had likely been replaced by a marginally more competent messenger. And the first of those afternoons in the tavern had been one where he hadn’t bothered to retrieve the scroll from the docks, either. So it followed that at some point, the seventh scroll had found its way to the Pharaoh.

“I owed him dinner,” said Khapet, quietly. “Well. I owe him a good burial, now. Can’t afford for the priests to embalm him, but I’ll be damned if I send my little brother to a communal grave. There’s a pomegranate grove on the island where we go fishing. I’ll bury him there. I will.” 

Was this was the first time that Menet had died at the hands of the guards? It had been quite a few afternoons since Menet was first waylaid in the tavern. The Pharaoh would have made the connection between the scroll, Menet, and himself long ago. At this point, Menet would have no more insight to divulge regarding the final destination of his shipment to the Records Hall. His death was entirely pointless. 

“Can you help, scribe?” With a start, Aziraphale realized that the baker was addressing him directly. “I’m his only family left, and I can’t carry him alone.” 

There was no point in burying Menet, when he was likely to die again the following afternoon. But Aziraphale couldn’t find it in him to refuse to Khapet’s request to his face. “It’s the least I can do,” he said, instead. 

“Thanks,” said Khapet. “Gotta get a bigger boat, first. My boat’s too small for three. Maybe rent something from one of the guys here.” The baker turned to the crowd gathered around, but nobody met his gaze. 

“Is there anyone else who can help you?” asked Aziraphale carefully. 

“They’ll be afraid to, because it was the guards that killed him,” said Khapet. “Doesn’t matter that they’re gone now.” He spat on the ground. “I hate this city,” he said. “Should’ve stayed in Thebes.” 

“I’ll secure transportation,” said Aziraphale. “Though, I believe there are some other things you need to attend to, first?” 

“Yeah.” Khapet stood up and rubbed his face, leaving a smudge of blood and dust among the flour. “I’ll get his things.” Then Khapet grabbed Aziraphale’s forearms unexpectedly. “You’ll be here when I get back?” he said, without any inflection of hope. 

“I will,” said Aziraphale firmly. 

**∽⧗∼**

Khapet returned about an hour later with a leather bag slung over his shoulder, and his skin scrubbed clean of blood and flour. His face was stony as he stood on the dock, staring at the boat that Aziraphale had materialized from the firmament. It was a fairly accurate rendition, with sails, though no oars. The captain’s body had been taken away by his grim-faced crew, loaded back onto the barge from which he’d come.

That left only Menet. The messenger’s body lay on the boat in a linen shroud that had once been the kilt he’d been wearing. 

Then Khapet looked down at the boat, as if seeing his brother’s body for the first time. “This isn’t real,” he said, his voice breaking. “This _can’t_ be real.”

“My dear, it’ll be easier to bury him while there’s still daylight out,” said Aziraphale, as kindly as he could. 

“Yeah. You’re right,” said Khapet. “Let’s get going.” He grit his teeth together and clambered onto the boat, his movements jerky. When Aziraphale was sure that the baker was securely seated, he set the boat in motion. It sailed smoothly on the river, though there was hardly any wind. Khapet wouldn’t have realized if the boat was being towed by a dozen moonfish. The baker sat at the front of the boat, his knees tucked up to his chest, refusing to look at Menet’s shrouded body.

“Might you direct us to the island?” said Aziraphale. 

“South,” said the baker tightly. His turned his face towards the setting sun, as if not looking at his brother’s body might mean that Menet was alive and well, just sleeping on the boat, ready to spring up and laugh at any moment. 

They glided up the river in silence, Khapet occasionally providing monosyllabic directions. 

“Here. On the west bank,” said Khapet finally, as the boat approached a small, rocky island that jutted high out of the river. Aziraphale clumsily grounded the watercraft on the shallow bank, as Khapet climbed off the bow. 

The baker gazed at the clump of pomegranate trees perched on the island, next to a makeshift wooden table and a small pile of reed mats. “Glad to see nobody’s stolen the dice table,” Khapet remarked, with a tiny spark of satisfaction hovering around the edges of his lips. Then he glanced back down at Menet’s body in the boat, and his face fell. 

“I’ll help you carry him,” said Aziraphale. 

“Yeah. Thanks,” said Khapet. Together they lifted Menet’s body up from the reed boat on a stretcher made of two poles with leather straps woven between. Khapet walked in the front, tracing a winding path to the top of the island. 

They’d set Menet’s body between the long shadows of the pomegranate trees, when Khapet said, “Fuck, I forgot the shovels.” He turned around to go back to the boat, and made it a whole two steps before he sat heavily down on the slope and tears welled up in his eyes. “Fuckin’ shovels. I knew I forgot something. Fuck. We’ve got to go back, we’ve got to go back -” 

“Don’t fret, my dear, I brought the shovels,” said Aziraphale. He miracled a matching pair of spades from nothing, and gave one to Khapet. 

The baker took the proffered spade in two hands, but made no move to get up. “Thanks,” he said. 

“Where would you like to dig the grave?” asked Aziraphale.

“Anywhere here’s good. I don’t care,” said Khapet. He stared out over the river. “We should’ve come here today. But he wanted to make a delivery, first.” 

Aziraphale picked a patch of ground at the top of the island, and began to dig. It seemed as good a place as any, though the ground was somewhat damp, and soil richer than the sand of a typical desert grave. He paused his exertions and asked, “Dear boy, are you certain this is a good spot? Maybe a drier spot would be good, to better preserve the body.” 

“Nah, Menet doesn’t like the desert. He likes the river best,” said Khapet, still refusing to look at Aziraphale or the body. 

Aziraphale could miracle a grave up, but he pushed the spade into the ground again Yet the strain in his shoulders as he lifted shovelful after shovelful of dirt out of the ground did not silence the downward spiral of thoughts in his mind. Razikael _wouldn’t_ have needed long to draw the connection between Menet’s delivery to the Records Hall, and himself, the scribe overseer. Any subsequent interrogation and execution would be pointless, as did the disposal of his body unceremoniously at the docks.

The grave was large enough, now, to accommodate a grown man. Aziraphale walked back to where Khapet still sat on the ground, watching the sun descend in the sky. “Khapet?” he said. 

“Yeah,” said Khapet, and he stood up. Together, they carried Menet’s stretcher and lowered it carefully into the grave that Aziraphale had dug. 

“Right. Gotta lay him down on his left side,” said Khapet, and he knelt by his brother. His hands trembled as he turned Menet onto his side, curled up as if he was sleeping. Then, he reached into his bag and pulled out items that he laid by Menet’s body, one by one. A wineskin of pomegranate beer. Bread wrapped in grape leaves. A dice cup. A copy of the Book of the Dead. A small sackcloth pillow, tucked under Menet’s head. A crudely carved wooden dog, rough edges worn smooth from play. It was a far cry from the trappings of a Pharaoh’s tomb. 

Khapet made sure the dog was tucked right next to Menet’s chest, before standing up. He began to cover Menet’s body with dirt. Aziraphale helped heap the sandy soil into the grave, all while trying to string together the sequence of events leading to the messenger’s death. The confirmation that the scroll had arrived via barge would have been the impetus for Razikael to post guards at the harbour to intercept any incoming shipments. And when he and Crowley had begun to pick up the scroll directly from the ship - well, the fastest ship in Akhetaten couldn’t outpace an angel in flight, even with a possessed Pharaoh at the helm. 

Khapet began reciting prayers. “Let him be reborn as Ra is reborn each morning, let him follow in Ra’s wake, let him triumph over Apep, serpent of evil, with Ma’at and Set and Hathor and all of Ra’s beloved, and descend unhindered through all the gates of the Duat.”

No, Razikael would have gotten everything useful she could from Menet by now. At this point, his death was completely pointless. 

But what if it hadn’t been pointless?

What if the guards had been ordered to bring Menet’s body to the docks to serve a purpose? 

Menet - the docks - there were only two souls in Egypt who’d recognize the significance of that conjunction. One of them was occupying the Pharaoh’s body. 

The other was watching Menet’s brother fumble through the rites for the dead. 

Menet’s death was a _message, _from one time traveller to another. A message that said, _I know you have the scroll_, through the lips of the dead man who had delivered said scroll on the very first Tuesday. 

A message that said, _bring me the scroll_, for what else did Aziraphale possess that Razikael might want? 

“Let his heart weigh lightly against the feather of Ma’at on her golden scale, so he may enter the house of Osiris, and sail across the Lake of Flowers, into the Field of Reeds,” continued Khapet dutifully. Then, Khapet’s voice began to break at last. “Menet was a good guy, he didn’t steal, he didn’t start fights, he barely blasphemed.” Sobs overtook the baker. “He didn’t do nothing to deserve this.” 

Khapet spoke truer words than he knew. If Aziraphale had just been more _careful_, then Razikael would never have known the scroll was in the city. 

Now the baker wept openly over the grave. “I should’ve left my market stall to find you earlier. I should’ve been there to protect you. You weren’t supposed to die. You’re the _younger_ brother. You were supposed to bury _me_. It isn’t right, and you know it -” 

Aziraphale fanned out his wings, just to check. They were still white.

Then he noticed that Khapet had stopped weeping, and was staring open-mouthed at Aziraphale instead. 

“Milady Ma’at,” he said fearfully. 

Aziraphale was torn between correcting Khapet and lying to Khapet. The sun was low. It didn’t seem like a good time to quibble over theology. He picked what he hoped was the lesser evil, and said, “Er. Yes?” 

Then the baker flung himself at the angel’s feet. “Forgive me, I didn’t recognize you as a scribe, else I’d never have called you a cheat -” 

Aziraphale felt profoundly uncomfortable and more than a little blasphemous. “Well, there’s no need for any of that, you can get up now,” he said, bending down and trying to lift Khapet to his feet. “Just - please - get up, what’s done is done -” 

“You honour me with your presence,” declared Khapet, still trying to prostrate himself. 

“I’m just visiting, I’ll be out of your hair by sunset,” said Aziraphale. “Things to do, people to see. Uh. Off to catch a ride on the, er, barge of Ra, and slay Apep, judge some souls,” he babbled. 

At the mention of souls, Khapet bolted upright and he began to tear up again. “You’ll judge Menet kindly, won’t you? Pick a heavy feather to weigh against his heart? He - he gambled and drank and he was a little shit sometimes, but overall - overall he was a good guy, and I’d like to - I beg you, please let me see him again one day -” Khapet gulped a deep breath, and continued. “If it pleases milady Ma’at.” 

A great heaviness settled over the angel. “Your brother will be judged kindly,” he said. Menet had committed no crimes to deserve death. But there he was, in a grave at their feet, to send Aziraphale a message. He reminded himself that Menet wouldn’t _stay_ dead, but that was hardly comforting. How many times had Menet been killed to send a message? How many times had Khapet buried Menet alone? 

He counted the few blessings he had. That Razikael had sought to send a message at all meant that the demon hadn’t had possession of the scroll long enough to finish her own translation. And despite the mistakes that Aziraphale had made, Razikael would still have no reason to suspect Crowley’s involvement in the scroll’s disappearance, seeing as Crowley hadn’t been the one to interrupt Razikael’s ritual in the first place. And that Aziraphale had been left in peace to complete his own translation for so long meant that the Pharaoh’s guards still hadn’t found Aziraphale’s house - but it was only a matter of time.

“Alright,” said Khapet. “Just - please - tell my brother to wait, alright? Tell him I’ll catch up with him, and tell him I’m sorry I wasn’t there for him -” 

“I promise you will be reunited in the Field of Reeds. I promise that justice will be done against his killers,” said Aziraphale, and he meant it, even as a flash of green light wiped the elder brother away - 

**∽⧖∼ **

“I don’t see what the problem is,” said Crowley.

Aziraphale let the demon’s well-worn dialogue sweep over him. He knew Crowley’s argument by heart now. 

“The economy is booming. The Kingdom’s at peace. A bit of monotheism never hurt anybody,” continued Crowley. 

He knew that Crowley’s response to the silence would be a breezy comment about the local cat-goddess -

“Bast got your tongue, angel?” said Crowley. Aziraphale looked up at the demon, past the glibness of his tone, and saw actual concern in his yellow eyes. 

Crowley didn’t have to help Aziraphale. But he had. It didn’t seem _right_.

“Nothing to worry about,” said the angel. 

Crowley bent down to the riverbank, and picked up a small, flat stone. “That’s right. Nothing to worry about at all,” he said, glancing at Aziraphale. “Don’t know why we bother having this ‘State of the Nation’ argument every time we meet. You complain about my undue influence in the administration, I reassure you that the eighteenth dynasty is a thousand times more stable than the seventeenth, and then we all calm down and go our separate ways.” 

There was something in his voice, then, that Aziraphale had never noticed until now. But he’d heard it in Khapet’s voice, and he’d felt it in his own bones, and he now recognized it as weariness, seeping through hairline cracks in the demon’s veneer of snide retorts and smug glances. Aziraphale was tired because he’d lived through several weeks, perhaps a few months’ worth of nothing but Tuesdays, where he was only making incremental progress. And in a way, so had Crowley, except his Tuesdays were spread out over a few hundred years, and instead of trying to eke out a full translation of an unreadable text, he’d been extending an olive branch the entire time - 

“A bit pointless,” agreed Aziraphale, still staring at the crocodiles in the distance. 

“Exactly,” said Crowley. He threw his stone into the river. It skipped twelve times, as Aziraphale knew it would. “Oho, a record.” 

“It’s all so pointless,” Aziraphale continued. “None of it matters.” 

“Well, that’s a bit harsh,” said Crowley peevishly. “Just because you don’t believe in this sort of self-improvement -” 

“I didn’t mean the skipping stones. I meant everything. All these Tuesdays.” Aziraphale sat down heavily on the riverbank and tucked his knees up to his chest, wrapping his arms around his legs. 

Now Crowley looked mildly alarmed. “Alright, so we’ve had some philosophical differences over the years, that doesn’t mean that opening a dialogue hasn’t been productive -” 

Crowley had been right. Aziraphale should have known better than to - than to _take advantage_ of the demon. And Crowley should have known better than to help the angel at all.

“You should have accepted the transfer,” said Aziraphale. Crowley opened his mouth to say something, but Aziraphale rushed onward. “I know Downstairs offered you a position in Mexico. You should have taken it -” 

“Aziraphale. Angel. Why would I go to Mexico?” interrupted Crowley. 

“Because they _worship_ snakes there, you would’ve had a grand old time overseas, you wouldn’t have to argue with me every other Tuesday,” continued Aziraphale. 

“I came up here of my _own free will _to help you see the _error _of your _ways_, thanks_ -” _

“ - because if you hadn’t shown up here on Tuesday, then I wouldn’t have had gotten you all tangled up in the time loop -” 

“Time loop?” squawked Crowley. 

“Crowley, we’re all trapped in a time loop,” said Aziraphale, and he picked a stone up from the riverbank, one polished smooth and flat by the turn and tumble of the Nile over hundreds of years. “The Pharaoh’s been possessed by a mad demon, there’s a mad demon scroll that she wants, and it’s only a matter of time before she gets her mad demon claws on it and finishes the translation herself, and then she’s going to go correct whatever injustice keeps her mad demon brain up at night. I’ve lived through this Tuesday afternoon dozens of times, and what have I got to show for it? Half a scroll translation and a trail of corpses.” He took a deep breath, trying to steady himself. “Do you know what the worst part of this has been? That you’re the only one who’s been able to help me translate the scroll. You’re the only one who’s been able to help with _any _of it.” 

No, he mentally corrected himself. That wasn’t the worst part. The worst part wasn’t that Crowley had been the only one who _could_ help, or even _would_ help, because Head Office hadn’t even heard him out. The worst part wasn’t even that Crowley was a demon. The worst part was that Crowley was a demon who had volunteered his help, and that Aziraphale had ungraciously taken advantage of the demon’s offer, in a manner unbefitting that of an angel, or even a run-of-the-mill human -

“Hopefully not the dead bodies part,” said the demon. He sat down on the ground, watching the angel with a clear, steady gaze. 

“You don’t have to humour me,” said Aziraphale bitterly. He’d never even properly thanked Crowley for his help - 

“I’m not humouring you. I’m merely concerned that you’ve _finally lost your blessed mind._”

The phrasing struck Aziraphale as profoundly absurd, given the context in which he’d last heard it from Crowley. It seemed like a very faraway time, even though it could only have been a few dozen loops ago. A sound rose up from his throat, and it was a moment before he realized it was a laugh. 

Crowley cleared his throat. “So this Pharaoh is possessed,” he said. 

“Yes,” said Aziraphale. 

“What does he want?”

“_She _wants to correct an injustice perpetuated by Heaven,” said Aziraphale. “But she wasn’t inclined to clarify exactly which injustice. I thought it might have been the Fall, but now I’m not so sure.” 

“Why not?” 

“Well, she didn’t seem committed to how far backwards she’d go once she got the ritual working,” said Aziraphale slowly. “The Fall was over two thousand years ago, but she implied that turning time back a few years might suffice.”

“But you still don’t know _why_ she wants to do it.” 

“No,” said Aziraphale. “But I do know that I don’t want to wait for her to succeed travelling backwards in time and and imposing her own version of_ justice_ onto the world. And that’s why I have to finish the translation.” He unwrapped his arms from his legs, and pushed himself up off the ground. “You don’t have to come,” he added, when Crowley stood up to follow. “You really don’t.” 

“Well, I didn’t have to come see you today in the first place. But I did,” said Crowley. “And to be frank, finishing the translation sounds a lot more interesting than attending the temple budget committee meeting or conducting a routine temptation.”

“I thought you enjoyed temptations,” said Aziraphale. 

“I do,” said Crowley. “And this - this is a first-class temptation you’ve just dropped on me, so congratulations, angel, you’ve got me hook, line, and sinker.” He clapped slowly at Aziraphale.

Aziraphale dropped his face into his hands. “I didn’t mean to put it that way -” 

“The thing about temptations,” interrupted Crowley, “is that you can’t make someone do something they don’t want to. And I _want_ to help, alright? Haven’t I helped you with half the scroll, already? Might as well finish the job.” 

“You really shouldn’t,” said Aziraphale.

“The other thing about temptations is that - excuse the cliché, but the forbidden fruit really is the sweetest,” continued Crowley. 

“But -” 

“That’s it,” said Crowley loudly. “I can’t take it anymore. You’ve got me convinced, angel, you and your blessed wiles.” 

“But are you sure I’m not taking advantage of your goodwill -” 

“Don’t talk to me about goodwill,” hissed Crowley. “Goodwill is for _your_ kind.”

“- Really, it’s no problem at all, I could go to Daeva in Nubia instead -”

“You really have lost your blessed mind. Daeva’ll skin you alive. I’m coming with you to translate that blasted scroll, and there’s nothing you can do or say to change my mind,” Crowley said resolutely. “Come on, angel.” 

“Alright,” said Aziraphale. He flung the stone in his hand into the river. It skipped five times. Then, to himself, he said, “I’ll do better this time.” 

“Don’t be so hard on yourself, five is plenty good,” said Crowley. 

“I suppose so,” said Aziraphale. But silently he vowed, _I’ll do better, I won’t take advantage of you again, I promise, I promise - _


	12. Quod Erat Demonstratum

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aziraphale tries to rectify some mistakes.

The angel and the demon flew over the Nile. Crowley alternated between rising up on thermals in lazy spirals and showy dives that looked a lot more dangerous than they were. Regrettably, the demon hadn’t once faceplanted into the water in all of the journeys they’d made to collect the scroll. Aziraphale kept an eye on him regardless, because Crowley’s aerial antics were actually fairly skillful, and the angel thought he might be able to pick up a few techniques by observation.

Midway through a completely unnecessary barrel roll, the demon’s glossy black feathers caught the sunlight in a flash of blue-green iridescence, and the angel felt a twinge in his chest. Then Crowley pulled out of the roll and met his gaze with a grin of mixed delight and self-satisfaction, and that twinge turned into an almighty lurch. He turned his face back downwards, towards the river.

He knew exactly where the transport barge would be, and when it came into view, he descended gently into a headwind and landed on the ship’s deck. He heard Crowley’s clean two-footed landing somewhere behind him. 

Aziraphale made a beeline for the chest where the demonic scroll was nestled, below a pile of harvest records and agricultural censuses. He opened the chest and pulled the scroll out by touch, as he had many times before. Then, he put it into his bag and turned around. 

“M’lady,” said the captain, and he bowed low. Then, he turned to Crowley, and bowed again, with a “M’lord.” 

Aziraphale looked at the captain, and his unbroken face, and the crocodile-shaped amulet hanging from his neck. Last time he’d seen the man, he’d been lying face down in the dirt at the docks of Akhetaten, unrecognizable but for that amulet. 

“Just go with it,” muttered Crowley. “You’re Ma’at, lady of truth and justice. I’m -” he paused and surveyed his own form, trying to determine where he fit into the pantheon. 

“Normally Apep, snake of chaos, but in this context, he probably thinks you’re Thoth,” whispered Aziraphale. “It’s a bit of a stretch, but between the feathers, that scroll, and your, er, _marital association_ with Ma’at -” He gestured at his own wings, feeling embarrassed. 

“Exactly,” said Crowley, looking mildly impressed, but also a bit puzzled at Aziraphale’s previously undisplayed familiarity with the local religion. 

“When in Egypt,” said Aziraphale, by way of explanation. 

“Hm,” said Crowley. He nudged the angel in the chest. “He’s staring. Ought we to say something?” 

Previously, Aziraphale had made a point of letting the barge continue on to its final destination, so as to prevent Razikael from being able to confirm that the scroll had originally arrived in Akhetaten by ship. It shouldn’t matter now, since Razikael had already made the connections between the scroll, the captain, and the messenger. 

“Maybe something about their welcoming committee, back at the docks,” said Crowley pointedly. 

But if he told the captain to redirect the barge, she’d realize that Aziraphale had received her message, and then -

The demon was still staring expectantly at him. The seconds passed awkwardly by. The captain’s bow began to waver with strain. 

In the end, Crowley made the decision for Aziraphale. He said to the captain, “Would you do us a boon?” 

“Anything, m’lord,” said the captain, and he knelt to the ground, partially in deference, and partially to relieve the crick in his back from holding a bow for so long. 

“Turn around and go back to Thebes,” said Crowley. 

“What?” said Aziraphale and the captain simultaneously. 

Crowley soldiered on. “You need to turn around. You don’t want to be around when shit goes down in Akhetaten,” he said. 

The captain looked torn. “But the shipment to your scribes at the Records Hall -”

“Trust me, _my_ scribes won’t miss last year’s harvest records at all,” said Aziraphale. Nevermind that Thoth was the god of writing or that Aziraphale hadn’t fulfilled any of his duties as head scribe in many Tuesdays. They were still _his_ scribes. 

Crowley shot a grateful look at Aziraphale. 

“Well, if it’s what m’lord wants,” said the captain. “And m’lady,” he added, with a nod to Aziraphale. Then, he turned to the crew, which had gathered on deck with awestruck faces. “Hard to starboard!” he shouted. 

Apparently satisfied, Crowley took off from the barge. Aziraphale followed before anybody could call him “m’lady” again. 

“What was that all about?” said Aziraphale. 

“What’s what?” 

“You know what. That ‘would you do us a boon’ business.” 

“Oh. That,” said Crowley uncomfortably. 

“It’s really not under your job description, is it?”

“Don’t get used to it. I won’t be doing it again. Felt _wrong_, y’know? Like someone was walking over my grave.”

“That’s a theological impossibility,” said Aziraphale. 

“Exactly,” said Crowley. He shuddered, which impressed Aziraphale, since it was rather difficult to do in flight without falling out of the sky. 

“But... why?” 

“You looked like you were having an aneurysm,” said the demon. But before Aziraphale could protest that he couldn’t _have_ an aneurysm, Crowley continued, “And the crew had to be warned about the welcome they’d get in Akhetaten, didn’t they?”

“I’d never warned them about the guards at the docks before.”

“You didn’t?” said Crowley, rounding on Aziraphale in midair. 

“If I’d warned the ship away before, Razikael would have realized something was amiss, and then she’d have confirmation that the scroll had arrived in Akhetaten in the first place,” said Aziraphale defensively. “It’s a moot point now. She’s already figured out how I came into possession of the scroll the first Tuesday.” Then he sighed. “Of course, now we’ve confirmed that her message has been received.”

“What message? What’d it say?” 

“It was more of an implication. Or a warning.” 

“A _warning?”_

“Well, leaving a pair of corpses at the harbour is hardly a gesture of _peace_,” said Aziraphale. 

“If she wanted to send you a warning, couldn’t she have sent you a sternly-worded letter instead? You like those, don’t you?”

Aziraphale had indeed experienced the exquisite pleasure of penning pointed missives to various deserving parties, including the demon, Pharaoh Pepi the Second, and the clerk in Human Resources in charge of issuing fresh corporations, but that was beside the point. “What other reason would there be for the Pharaoh’s guards to kill Menet and the captain, except to relay that she would like the scroll in my possession?” 

“You’re thinking like an angel. A very paranoid angel,” said Crowley. “Have you considered that perhaps the demon was just blowing off steam? Or how perhaps not everything is about you? Or maybe, just _maybe_, you’ve got your head stuck up your arse again?” 

“Of course I’ve considered all the possibilities,” said Aziraphale. “Wait. No!” 

Crowley chuckled. “Yeah, I thought so. So where are we off to now? Rescuing the messenger?”

Grief surged up in Aziraphale, mingled with guilt. In the rush to intercept the scroll, he’d left Menet to his own devices at the tavern. He hoped that the brothers hadn’t finished their lunch yet. Otherwise, he wasn’t sure if he could find Menet before the guards did. “Yes,” he said simply.

**∽⧗∼**

“You’d better stay back,” said Aziraphale as he and Crowley entered the tavern courtyard. 

“Afraid the humans will fall under my dark influence?” said the demon.

“Something like that,” said Aziraphale. He’d rather that neither brother notice Crowley at all, in case he failed, and Menet was interrogated again - 

Crowley snorted, but he obliged Aziraphale’s request, and settled into a slouchy lean against a leafy-vined arbour at the entrance to the courtyard. 

“Menet?” said Aziraphale tentatively, as he approached the brother’s lunch table. He’d caught them as they were packing up their dice. 

“Depends who’s asking,” said the messenger warily. 

“That’s the guy I was telling you about,” said Khapet, pointing an accusatory finger at Aziraphale. “Don’t play dice with scribes, Menet. They’ve got sneaky fingers and no sense of shame.” 

“Oh, _him_,” said Menet. 

“Well, why’re you here, then?” said Khapet, walking over to put himself between Aziraphale and Menet. “I’d _love _to watch you flip over a set of sixes again but unlike you, I’ve got honest coin to earn.” 

“Menet, the Pharaoh’s men have been looking for you,” said Aziraphale, peering over Khapet’s right shoulder at the messenger. The baker shifted his weight, blocking eye contact between Aziraphale and Menet.

“Really? I didn’t do nothin’,” said Menet defensively, his face bobbing up over Khapet’s other shoulder. “Plus, I was nowhere near the glassworks explosion last week.” 

“He’s telling the truth,” called Crowley from behind the brothers. He was now sitting cross-legged on top of the arbour, surrounded by grapevines.

Aziraphale ignored the demon. “That may be the case, but the guards’ interrogation techniques are known to be, er, harsh, to say the least,” he said. “It might be better to take the day off and go fishing instead. Or just to leave town until this all blows over.” 

Menet furrowed his brow. “It _has_ been a while since we’d pulled some fresh catch in,” he said. To Khapet, he said, “What do you think? We could have some fried fish for dinner -” 

“My apprentices could run the market stall,” said the baker, still scowling at Aziraphale from under heavy, flour-dusted brows. “But you - the harbourmaster threatened to sack you if you missed another day of work -” 

“Ahmes’ll cover for me,” said Menet dismissively. “Ever since I caught him screwing the harbourmaster’s wife -” 

“You shouldn’t make skiving off work a habit,” said Khapet. 

“Think of the moonfish you’d catch,” said Aziraphale desperately. “The beer you could brew with the pomegranates.”

“Oi, how’d you know about our fishing spot?” said Khapet belligerently. “You been spying on us too, scribe?” 

“Er - it’s public property -” 

“A man has a right to fish in peace,” said Khapet, striding right up to Aziraphale’s face, “without being _spied_ upon by any busybodies.” 

“You certainly do,” said Aziraphale, craning his neck upwards to meet the baker’s eyes. “Especially if those busybodies are the Pharaoh’s guards.” 

Maybe a more direct approach was in order. He snapped his fingers. The two brothers’ expressions took on an amiable slant, and their eyes went blank and glassy. 

He’d used that trick a hundred times before, to stop a small army in their tracks, to ask kings questions they didn’t want to answer, to calm crying children. But this time, the look in their eyes was unsettlingly empty - like they belonged in Menet’s face when he’d lain dead at the docks, or Khapet’s face when he’d climbed into the funeral barge. The command to take a boat to the island or Thebes or even the Mediterranean sea stuck in his throat, but he forced it out anyways. 

“You’ll go fishing this afternoon,” he said. “You’ll take a boat to the island with the pomegranate grove. And in thirty seconds, you’ll wake up, having dreamed about -” what did they dream about here? “- about whatever you like best,” he concluded. 

He ended the compulsion and turned away abruptly, so he wouldn’t have to look at their empty eyes any longer. 

The demon clapped slowly, as Aziraphale made to leave the tavern courtyard. “Nearly made a dog’s breakfast of that one,” said Crowley, and he dropped neatly down from the top of the arbour. “Good effort with that temptation, but can’t blame you when it fell through - that’s more my wheelhouse. What happened to the compulsion, though? You usually do it with a bit more panache.”

“I was in a rush. There’s only a few hours before the afternoon restarts.” 

“Point taken. Suppose it feels too easy, otherwise, shuffling people around like pieces on the Senet board. What’s the point in playing when you don’t follow the rules?” 

“It’s not a game,” snapped Aziraphale. 

Crowley held up his hands in a conciliatory gesture. “Yeah, because it’s a metaphor,” he said. “Think about it this way. Why has the Almighty been seen less and less over the years? If Lucifer is such a thorn in Upstairs’ side, why not just snuff us all out? Why not lift a finger to stop the Pharaoh?” 

“That’s ineffability for you,” said Aziraphale. 

“You say ineffable, I say cheating,” said Crowley. “And cheating takes the fun out of a game, unless cheating _is_ the game.” 

“I’m not really inclined to discuss the Plan with you right now,” said Aziraphale. “Let’s go.” 

They strode towards Aziraphale’s house in the north end of Akhetaten again, winding their way between dozens of other near-identical mud-brick houses. 

However, it was easy to pick out which house belonged to Aziraphale. For one, there was a squad of guards hovering menacingly near the garden gate, dark eyes scanning the gathering crowd for the homeowner. For another, the house was on fire. 

“Oh, dear,” said Aziraphale. The pang he felt at the destruction of the texts housed within was overshadowed by the whirl of his mind as he evaluated this new development. It had been only a matter of time before the Pharaoh’s guards managed to canvass the entire neighbourhood and set his thatch roof afire to flush the head scribe out. Aziraphale grabbed Crowley’s arm and pulled him into his neighbour’s front garden, just as one of the guards turned around. 

Good fences made good neighbours, or at least passable hiding places. Aziraphale was thankful that the eye-level fence obstructed the guard’s view of him and Crowley hunched behind a duck coop, hip-high in shrubbery. The waterfowl eyed them balefully. They knew who brought them grain for dinner, and it wasn’t those two. 

“I take it this is new,” said Crowley unhelpfully, his breathing uneven. 

“Shut up,” said Aziraphale. When he felt that his heart wasn’t pounding hard enough to betray him, he peeked over the top of the fence, regretting it instantly when he nearly made eye contact with a guard. “There’s six of them,” he said. 

“Come on, we can take them on,” said Crowley. He made to stand up straight again. Aziraphale grasped a handful of the demon’s absurd pleated tunic again and pulled him back down. 

“Not those ones,” whispered Aziraphale. 

“Are you sure? There’s two of us -”

“They’re under the Pharaoh’s protection,” said Aziraphale, more insistently. 

“What’s that supposed to mean? We can’t spend all afternoon with these blasted ducks -” Crowley tried to stand up again, and Aziraphale all but tackled him into the bushes, landing on top of the demon with a muffled thump. 

Footsteps drew closer, and he could feel the air shift as Crowley tried to divert the guard’s attention, and then to stop him in his tracks, but without avail. The haft of a spear thudded into the ground a ways from the angel and the demon, missing them entirely. The second thrust struck the ground dangerously close to Crowley’s face. The demon’s yellow eyes widened in alarm at the dent that the butt of the spear had left in the dirt. 

They held their breath. 

At last the guard muttered, “Must’ve been the damned ducks,” and withdrew the spear from the bush. 

Aziraphale strained his ears for the sound of the guard’s footsteps walking away from the bush, trying very hard not to pay attention to the rapid rise and fall of Crowley’s chest underneath him. 

“I think he’s gone now,” said Crowley breathlessly. 

“The guards are under the Pharaoh’s protection,” said Aziraphale, making no move to emerge from the shrubbery. “Miracles don’t work on them. They’ve discorporated me at least twenty times already.” 

“But miracles still work _around_ them, right?” said Crowley. His words were warm against Aziraphale’s skin. 

“I believe so,” said Aziraphale. 

“Well, that’s our ticket out of this bush,” said Crowley. “Not that this isn’t very pleasant, but I can’t help you with the translation at this angle. Very unergonomic.” 

“Oh. Right,” said Aziraphale. He rolled off the demon, to lie right beside him. Crowley was right. The roots of the shrubs dug into his back. With a silent apology to his neighbour, he put a notion into the ducks’ minds that the guards’ tunics were filled with grain, and that a few nips of the ankle would put them in a mood amenable to sharing. 

In a madly quacking mass of beaks and feathers, the flock of ducks streamed out of the courtyard. This was followed by the yelps of guards as toothed beaks found tender, unprotected ankles. 

Crowley looked unimpressed. “No sense of style at all,” he said. Both the angel and the demon stood up. 

Aziraphale peeked over the garden fence. Pandemonium reigned. “But it worked,” he reasoned. 

“Missing the point, angel,” said Crowley. There were twigs and leaves stuck in his hair at odd angles. He incinerated them, the flame illuminating his face briefly like a fiery halo, before disappearing as quickly as they’d appeared, leaving behind the smell of brimstone and a wisp of smoke. “You’ve got something in your -” he gestured at Aziraphale’s head. 

“Beg pardon?” said Aziraphale. 

“_Quod erat demonstratum_,” muttered Crowley. He reached over and pulled a sprig of greenery out from the angel’s hair, his fingers brushing against the outer ridge of Aziraphale’s ear. 

“Let’s go,” said Aziraphale, suppressing a shiver. 

The angel and the demon did not run from the scene, so as not to divert attention from the burning house and the swarm of ducks, but they did walk very briskly and nonchalantly away. 

“Well. What’s next on this guided tour?” said Crowley. “Hopefully it’s close by.” 

It was a legitimate question, at this point. The basement of the Records Hall was out, since the Hall was right off the public square. He’d rather minimize the risk of being seen with Crowley. It was no longer a matter of how public association with the demon might infringe upon his status as an agent of Heaven. The longer he could maintain plausible deniability about Crowley’s involvement in his attempts to break out of Tuesday afternoon, the better. Aziraphale and Razikael both remembered what had happened in previous loops. Crowley didn’t have that advantage. 

Thebes and Abydos and Hermopolis were further afield, but the more time they spent in transit, the less time they’d have to work on the translation. 

“There’s an island, on the way back,” he said, with a mild pang of guilt. 

“Lead the way, angel,” said Crowley. 

**∽⧖∼ **

Aziraphale feared the worst when Khapet and Menet didn’t arrive on the island to interrupt Crowley’s translation of the scroll with protestations that the scribe and the priest were _trespassing_ and should find their own island, thanks. 

He and Crowley flew back to Akhetaten at sunset. It wasn’t hard to find the two brothers. It was at the harbour that they’d tethered their reed boat, and thus it was at the harbour that they’d died, broken fishing rods in hand and a sack of afternoon provisions scattered on the ground around them. 

He tried again. The next afternoon, he unfolded his wings and commanded them to leave the city by horses that he’d conjured from the firmament. They were apprehended by guards on suspicion of horse theft, and dead before they reached the city’s edge. 

He tried again. He successfully tempted the brothers to stay at the tavern for a few more rounds of dice. He’d left them with an irresistible zeal for the game that would linger until sunset. A few hours later, he’d found both of them lying dead in the tavern courtyard, dice scattered across the ground. 

He tried again. With a snap of his fingers, he sent both brothers _elsewhere_, leaving a pair of dice cups and the smell of fresh bread in their wake. He hoped they’d materialized in Thebes, but he could never be sure when banishing people. Making people disappear was more Crowley’s domain. It turned out he’d sent them right into the harbour, to their deaths. 

He tried again. He warded Menet as well as he could, hoping that they’d deflect the spear blows that had killed him. But it seemed that the guards’ spears hadn’t any trouble piercing the shields he’d placed on Menet, and the messenger lay dead at sundown again. 

He tried again. 

Aziraphale was no stranger to death. He’d seen hundreds drown around the Ark, as exhaustion claimed them one by one. He’d seen Sodom and Gomorrah wiped out in a rain of burning sulfur. And his own hands weren’t particularly clean, either. He’d ensured that some prisoners dropped dead in their cells minutes before being marched out to the gallows, and that pyres designed to burn long and slow flared up unexpectedly and consumed convicts in seconds instead of minutes. He’d given directions to a lost soldier that had led him straight into the enemy camp. And, of course, he’d discorporated a few demons over the past couple centuries, or more accurately, mostly just one demon on repeat occasions. The difference was that all everyone else could only die once, except Crowley, who technically hadn’t even died at all. On the other hand, he’d as good as slain the messenger dozens of times. 

Eventually, he stopped trying to warn Menet. His duty was to execute the Plan as it was relayed from Upstairs, and to thwart enemy agents. His duty was not to save whichever human caught his attention that year. It was indeed possible that the Almighty had dictated that Menet _couldn’t_ be saved, perhaps as a punishment for allowing the Pharaoh’s possession on his watch, or for forgetting the scroll one afternoon, or for failing to expel Crowley from Egypt once and for all. 

In the end, he stopped trying to warn Menet because he couldn’t bring himself to face the two brothers again. And wasn’t it better to spend each loop trying to finish the translation and stop Razikael from exacting justice as quickly as possible?

_Of course it is,_ Aziraphale thought, as he committed the lines of Crowley’s translation to memory. The demon sat opposite to him, unaware of the angel’s unease, absently doodling in the margins of the scroll and jotting notes between the lines of demonic text. Sunbeams shone through the grove of pomegranate trees, casting golden light across the planes of Crowley’s face and the patch of ground where he had once dug Menet’s grave alike. _It has to be. _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My original draft had Aziraphale not even make an attempt to save Menet, for expediency/greater good, but after I finished Chapter 11, I couldn't just _leave_ the two brothers to the Pharaoh's devices... and that is why we get the _Time Machine_ homage this chapter. Thanks to SilchasRuin for a last-minute beta of a last-minute plot addition. We'll be returning to Crowley and the scroll next chapter.


	13. Hereditary Enemies

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley finishes the translation of the scroll.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No real shade to Tolkien, here, it's all in good fun.

There were no more afternoons at the tavern. No more detours into the adventures of Gilgamesh and Enkidu. No more pomegranate beer. At the start of every loop, Crowley accompanied Aziraphale to the barge while it was still several miles south of Akhetaten. Aziraphale would explain the predicament en route, they’d retrieve the scroll, and then they’d redirect the barge to Thebes. Then, they’d retire to the island where he and Khapet had once buried Menet, and tackle the translation of the scroll at the low table beside a pomegranate grove. It wasn’t as far from Akhetaten as he’d like, but he reasoned that it’d be harder for the Pharaoh’s guards to sneak up on him by boat than by bursting through his living room window or burning the whole house down around him. 

Progress remained maddeningly slow. The last third of the document was filled with nonsensical adjustments to the ritual, as if the author had become increasingly desperate to make progress, to the extent that they’d started rambling about alternate universes and temporal paradoxes and stable time loops. He daydreamed about going to the market, escaping to Babylon, or even just taking a loop off to sleep. 

But they persisted, line by line and afternoon by afternoon, until one afternoon, Crowley laid his notes out on the table and leaned back in weary triumph. 

“That’s the last of it,” said Crowley. “Blasted demonic script gives me a headache. How many times have we gone through this?”

“A dozen or so,” said Aziraphale patiently.

“Hm,” said Crowley. “Thought it would have taken me longer.”

_It did,_ Aziraphale thought, but he said, “Let’s go over the last few paragraphs again.” 

Crowley began reading. 

> _My last efforts have increased the reach of the ritual by a few minutes at best. I fear that I am approaching the ritual’s temporal asymptote. Simply put, I do not have enough power to go backward for more than a few hours at a time. I need help - I cannot turn to anyone else, and certainly not anyone in Research and Development. They would double-cross me in an instant if they knew I was trying to reverse my Fall. I transferred to Earth once it became apparent that my research would be best carried out far, far away from that department. _
> 
> _Mnemosyne brings visions with increasing frequency and unbearable clarity. I wrought the knife to bring memories to the surface, but it has tasted my blood oft enough that memories return even when I lay a finger on the handle. Sometimes I wish I’d never forged that accursed knife. Then I’d never have remembered that I was Ophiel before I was Lilith, and all that entailed, I wouldn’t be trying to develop this blasted ritual in the first place. _
> 
> _But if I told Razikael what I remembered - yes, the light of Heaven, but so much _ _more_ _ \- perhaps she would deign to help me. She is twelvefold more powerful, and I believe that she, of all people, might understand _ _why_ _ I was trying to reverse my Fall. It is unlikely that she could supply the power required to travel that far backwards, and she did promise to destroy me if ever we met again. However, I see no other alternative at this point. I have to try _ _something._

“We spent a few weeks for _that?_” said Aziraphale. 

“You said _a dozen or so_ loops.”

“Give or take.” He wasn’t sure, exactly, how long it had been since he’d first secured the demon’s assistance - 

“You lied,” the demon accused.

“I didn’t want you to feel like your translation skills weren’t up to scratch!” protested Aziraphale.

“Still counts,” said Crowley. 

“Never mind how long it took, we’ve finished, now,” said Aziraphale, in what he hoped was a placatory tone. 

Crowley still looked mutinous, but he said, “Now what? Hope you got what you were looking for.” 

“I don’t know,” said Aziraphale. They’d spent weeks on the scroll, and Aziraphale had been holding out for something that he could _use_ at the end of it. A failsafe that he could employ to return time to its usual flow. But the scroll had only confirmed that the original writer had never been able to make the ritual work successfully. There was no word on how someone other than the caster could end the ritual. 

“The part that interests me,” said Crowley, “is why this _Lilith_ would want to reverse her Fall. Last I heard, she’d been transferred from R&D to a field assignment. I’d no idea that it was because she was having hang-ups about the Fall.

Aziraphale shrugged. “What does it matter?” he said bitterly. “She’s not the one who trapped everybody in a Tuesday.” It was Razikael who had wielded Mnemosyne in the ritual, after all.

“But the two of them could be in cahoots,” said Crowley. “Lilith wasn’t powerful enough, and needed a source of more power. Though, if Razikael herself only had enough power to repeat an afternoon, I think that it might be mathematically impossible to go back any further without the help of some enormously powerful accomplices.” 

“If I were interested in going backwards in time a few centuries, how powerful would I need to be?” said Aziraphale. 

“Well, uh. How powerful is Razikael?” 

Razikael had never fought Aziraphale toe-to-toe, nor revealed her true form. However, even in her current choice of body, she’d been perfectly apt at shielding the Pharaoh’s guards from Aziraphale’s not-inconsiderable supernatural interference. “Maybe a bit more so than you or I,” said Aziraphale. 

“You or I,” repeated Crowley.

“We’re roughly equally matched, aren’t we?” said Aziraphale. They discorporated each other with similar frequency, and neither Heaven nor Hell had ever established a foothold in a region where they both operated, despite any reports submitted to the contrary. It wasn’t like, oh, Canada, which was a Heavenly stronghold, or Australia, where spiders were the size of your _face_... 

“Suppose so,” said Crowley. “And that makes sense, if she’s been able to extend the duration of the ritual to six hours, whereas Lilith achieved at least two hours - that doesn’t make sense, Razikael should be able to squeeze at least a full day out of it -” 

“Maybe her ritual was bottlenecked by the sacrifice,” said Aziraphale. “Too small to channel the temporal power involved.” 

“What’s the sacrifice, by the way?” 

“An animal sacrifice, consigned to the flames. Standard occult practice,” said Aziraphale. Specifically, a garden-variety snake, but he wasn’t in a mood to listen to Crowley wax poetic about the virtues of his serpentine brethren. 

“In that case, there’s no telling how powerful she _actually_ is.” 

“I discorporated her once,” said Aziraphale. 

“Right. So I’ll assume that Razikael’s as powerful as either one of us, and that Lilith is at least one rank lower -” Crowley scribbled furiously on the parchment. Aziraphale peered over at his work. It looked like demonic script. Then, he realized they were just numbers, with a lot of trailing zeros. 

“And above me there’s the lords, the under-dukes, and the dukes, and the archdemons...” muttered Crowley. 

Corresponding to the virtues, dominions, thrones, and cherubim, and archangels, noted Aziraphale. As a principality he occupied a rung just above the authorities, guardians and the regular angels. The hierarchy didn’t scale linearly to power. Every step up or down represented a twelvefold difference in power. It was why, when Gabriel said “jump,” one replied, “how high?” and hoped that too much of the archangel’s energy was wrapped up in internal politics to answer.

“So, to go a few years back, you’d need to be... oh, an Under-Duke at the least,” said Crowley. 

_A throne_, thought Aziraphale. He was reasonably certain that Razikael did not have that kind of power. “And how about a few centuries?” he said. 

Crowley added a few more trailing zeros to his calculations. “Then you’d need to be an archdemon. Or a Prince of Hell, if you like,” he said.

“So, an archangel,” murmured Aziraphale. 

“Or at least ten Dukes of Hell. Wouldn’t recommend that though. They’re liable to shank each other whenever there’s more than three of them in a room. Makes interdepartmental meetings extra fun, by the way.” 

“Right. Where’s Razikael going to find an archangel?” 

“Or a fallen archangel,” added Crowley. “Could be Beelzebub, Lucifer, Melkor....” 

“Would any of them be amenable to turning back time?”

“Probably not. As far as the Board of Directors is concerned, everything is going perfectly according to plan.” 

“Upstairs would say the same, too,” said Aziraphale. 

“Right. And repeating a few hundred years for the whims of one of the Fallen... that would be extremely dangerous.” 

“Dangerous how?” 

“Well, Melkor’s a Prince of Hell. He had Dagon demoted because she interrupted him in the middle of a book he was writing. He had his executive assistant fed to the hellhounds for spilling cocoa on the manuscript. And that maniac’s book is - well, it’s really something. Half travel diary. Half royal genealogy. Half fancy poetry.” 

“That adds up to more than one,” said Aziraphale, curious about at least the _poetry_ part of the work. 

“Exactly,” said Crowley. “He’s got no sense of editorial restraint. So when I say that Melkor is the most even-tempered of the archdemons, I want that to mean something to you.” 

Aziraphale shook off a not-inconsiderate part of himself that commiserated with Melkor. “You’ve made your point,” he said. “But, purely hypothetically, how much power would I need to travel back to the Fall?” 

Crowley regarded Aziraphale coolly. “Purely hypothetically?” he said. 

“Yes.” 

“If you had that much power, you could stand toe-to-toe with Beelzebub, Lucifer _and _Melkor, and come out without a scratch on you,” said Crowley. 

“Ah.” 

“Purely hypothetically, of course,” said Crowley, still watching Aziraphale closely. 

“Of course.” 

“What’s more, Razikael ought to be able to travel back at least a full day, but can only manage six hours, because she’s being bottlenecked by the sacrifice she’s using. She’d need something over a thousand times more powerful to travel a year back in the past.” 

A snake a thousand times more powerful than the one the Pharaoh had sacrificed into the fire on the very first Tuesday. There wasn’t a snake in existence that fit the bill, except - 

“So in theory, it’s possible to travel back a few years -” continued the serpent of Eden.

Aziraphale looked at the demon in horror. The demon had never asked to become involved in his efforts to end the time loop in the first place, and he certainly hadn’t signed up to be a potential sacrifice for Razikael’s next iteration of the ritual. 

“Is there something on my face?” said Crowley.

“No, no,” muttered Aziraphale, and he rearranged his features into a mask of calm. He shouldn’t panic yet. Razikael was surely aware of Crowley’s presence in Akhetaten, since he was a fairly high-ranking _priest_ who didn’t exactly tread softly through the city, if his leadership of the budget committee had been any indication. However, she hadn’t sought to sacrifice him in the ritual the first Tuesday, meaning that she wasn’t aware of the full mathematical intricacies of the ritual. Aziraphale’s residual panic was replaced by annoyance. What kind of maniac carried out an occult time ritual without reading the full instructions?

“Right. Well, it’s theoretically possible to travel back in time a few years, but impossible in practice, even if you’re an archdemon,” concluded Crowley. 

_Impossible without sacrificing a certain serpent into the fire_, thought Aziraphale, but he took solace in the fact that he was the only one aware of that particular constraint on the ritual. Substantial time travel remained functionally impossible, as long as Crowley remained safely out of reach, a condition with which Aziraphale had absolutely no problem. A hope rose up within Aziraphale. “Do you think Razikael might see it that way?” he said.

“No. How do you reason with someone who’s been reliving Tuesday _on purpose_ for -” he eyed the angel. “How many afternoons, now?” 

Aziraphale ignored the question. “It might be worth a try,” he said, instead. 

“Right. How’re you planning to get a word out edgewise before discorporation o’clock?” 

“I’ll think of something,” said Aziraphale, wondering if there was a counter-ritual he could perform to break the shielding on the guards - 

“I’ve got an idea for that, actually,” said the demon suddenly.

“Pray, tell.”

“Heresy,” said Crowley. Aziraphale goggled at the demon, who quickly clarified, “Razikael’s protecting them from outside influence, right? But she’s not outright controlling them.”

“Go on.”

“So, all we need to do is convince the guards to bugger off so you can have a word with the Pharaoh in peace. And for that -” Crowley spread his arms out, with the flourish of a street-conjurer producing a flock of doves from his sleeves, while his assistant pickpocketed the gaping crowd. “- heresy!” 

“I’m still not following.” 

“Well, they’re a fairly superstitious lot, and the Aten thing hasn’t won the Pharaoh any points with the populace - so, a show of power in line with the old ways might be enough to make the guards think twice about attacking. Hopefully they’d shit themselves in fear, or at least seriously question their devotion to the Son of Aten.” 

“You might be onto something.” said Aziraphale thoughtfully. “The people already practice the old ways under the Pharaoh’s nose. Something big might be enough to reignite their faith.” He lit up. “I’ll need to do more research -”

“No, the more basic, the better. How about reenacting something with the gods?” suggested Crowley. “Something big. Something from their oldest myths. On the order of the reconstitution of Osiris, or the battle of Set, Isis, and Horus.”

“Those aren’t really logistically feasible,” said Aziraphale. “Neither of us can be cut into pieces and put back together again, or sprout a great cow’s head.”

“We can do other things,” said Crowley patiently. “I’ve got - well -”

His shape wavered and he fell to the ground as a great serpent. The serpent’s tongue flicked out at Aziraphale, as if to make a point, and then it reared its head and coalesced back into a man-shaped figure again.

“I can’t transform into any animals,” said Aziraphale hopelessly. 

“But you’ve got those wings, haven’t you? You can be Ma’at.”

“Alright, so that makes you... Thoth?” Aziraphale said, remembering the barge.

“What?” said Crowley. “Oh. The black feathers. You know Thoth is Ma’at’s husband, right?”

“Of course I do.” 

“I’m flattered you think of me that way,” said Crowley, and Aziraphale flushed. “But the two of them don’t have any really inspiring stories associated with them. Gotta have something flashy to spook the guards properly.” He looked appraisingly at the angel. “Ma’at and Apep, I think.” 

“That one’s not strictly canonical,” said Aziraphale. 

“But, ah, it makes perfect sense... Ma’at is the goddess of truth. Justice. Order. Whereas Apep is the serpentine embodiment of discord. The Lord of Chaos.” He listed Apep’s epithets with increasing resignation, rather than pride. 

“Hereditary enemies,” murmured the angel. 

“Exactly,” said Crowley. “So, I was thinking - we could reenact a battle between Apep and Ma’at. It’s perfect. I mean, it’d take balls of bronze for a guard to stand up to the goddess who’s going to weigh their soul in the afterlife.” 

“So - I’ll just have my wings out, you’ll turn into a snake, then I’ll fight you, and that’s all there is to it?” said Aziraphale, faintly. He remembered the child in the market who had played Apep, never managing to catch the other children, who swarmed in and out of his reach like insects. 

“Exactly,” said Crowley, looking relieved that Aziraphale had cottoned on so quickly. 

Aziraphale gaped for a moment before Crowley’s suggestion sank in. “Absolutely not,” he said, standing up.

“Why not?” demanded the demon, standing up to face Aziraphale. 

“Well, you’d be discorporated, for one,” snapped Aziraphale. 

“I can play dead,” said Crowley. 

“And when the civilians come around to cut up your body, and make sure that Apep is really dead? Did you mishear the part where none of us can be chopped up and put back together again?” snapped Aziraphale. 

“Alright, so discorporation’s back on the table. But that’s what we do. We fight,” said Crowley, his face hardening. “Come on, angel. We’re hereditary enemies!”

“It’s too risky,” said Aziraphale, sharply. 

“Why?” said Crowley. “It shouldn’t be hard. You’ve got enough experience fighting me. Then when you’ve scared off the guards, you can break into the palace, and destroy her with H- Holy Water, since I’m out of the picture.”

“I said, no,” said Aziraphale. 

“Don’t ssssssay that you’re getting cold feet now,” hissed Crowley. 

“I’m not getting cold feet. I simply refuse to take part in your half-baked plan -” 

“Right,” said Crowley. “You got any better ideas? Gonna stroll up into the palace and tell Razikael to her face that the ritual doesn’t work?” 

Aziraphale didn’t say anything. 

“Oh, dear lord,” said Crowley. He sank his face into his hands. 

“She wants to see the scroll. So she’ll grant me an audience,” said Aziraphale. 

Crowley continued to rub his temples with one hand. “You can’t be seriously thinking about negotiating with a mad time-traveller.” 

“Well, you were seriously thinking about getting yourself discorporated right off the bat as part of a _ruse_. My plan could end with nobody getting discorporated,” said Aziraphale. “Surely you can agree that’s a best-case scenario -” 

Crowley stood up, and Aziraphale followed suit. “You haven’t any idea why Razikael started the loops in the first place! How can you reason with someone like that?” he said, flinging out an arm in a beseeching gesture. “Trust me, you don’t know what goes through some demons’ heads.” He eyed Aziraphale with disdain. “Or apparently, some angels’ heads, either.” 

“I’ll figure it out,” shouted Aziraphale. “Because it’s still a damn sight better than your plan! Why are you so eager to risk your neck? Is it because Crowley in another Tuesday is someone else’s problem? Does it not feel _real_ enough?” 

“Oh, I’m very concerned about my alternate-timeline self. And I don’t fancy the idea of losing a duel to my _hereditary enemy_ in the very least. But I, unlike you, also realize there are worse things than discorporation. Like reliving Tuesday afternoon over and over again,” said the demon, barely moving his lips at all. 

“You wouldn’t even realize there was a time loop going on if I hadn’t told you about it,” insisted Aziraphale. 

“That’s not what I meant, you bloody - stupid - angel -” snarled Crowley. 

“You think you’ve got it hard, knowing that a few month’s worth of Tuesdays have passed but not remembering any of them, but I’m the one who’s got to remember each one, do you know how _difficult_ that is?” 

“I’ve got a notion,” said Crowley darkly. “You think you’re the only one who knows what it’s like, to be stuck talking about some rubbish politics or corporate policy for years on end? Forgetting what the conversation was about in the first place? Wondering what things were like before all that shit started?” He took a step towards Aziraphale, and the angel had to crane his neck up to meet the demon’s eye. “It’s not the same as being trapped in a time loop. But I imagine it’s close.” 

“Look, if this whole situation was reversed, you’d -” began Aziraphale. 

“But it’s not, is it?” said Crowley. “You’re _not_ the serpent of Eden. And around here, there’s only one way that story can go.” 

Aziraphale opened his mouth to retort that maybe, _just maybe,_ the stories were wrong, nevermind the tradition - 

But then there was a flash of green light, and Aziraphale found himself transported from the island back to the riverbank. 

He was still looking at Crowley, but it was the marginally more carefree, relaxed Crowley of six hours past, and not the strained, shouting Crowley of a few moments ago. 

“I don’t see what the problem is,” said the demon. 

“Of course you don’t,” said Aziraphale wearily. “And I’m glad you don’t. Don’t worry. I’ll take care of it myself.” 

“Take care of the Pharaoh?” said Crowley, sounding alarmed. “Come on, he’s just a harmless nut. You’re not going to kill him, are you?” 

“I don’t think so,” said Aziraphale. “But we’re going to have a nice, long talk.” 

He turned away from Crowley, and made to leave. 

“Aziraphale - wait up -”

The angel heard a flurry of steps behind him, followed by the clap of a hand upon his shoulder. 

“You’re not really going to kill him, are you?” said Crowley. His eyes were wide and pleading. “C’mon, the Aten thing’s just a joke - when the Pharaoh mentioned he wanted to worship the sun -” 

He wanted to tell Crowley the truth. He wanted to tell Crowley that the Pharaoh had allowed himself to be possessed. He wanted to tell Crowley that they were all trapped in a time loop, and that he’d finally thought of a way to break out of it. But if he did, Crowley would insist on coming along, and Aziraphale would be damned if he let the demon go anywhere near Razikael. She didn’t know of Crowley’s involvement, and in case negotiations went south, he intended to keep it that way. 

“I can’t talk right now,” he said, hoping that it’d be enough to fend off the demon’s interest in the Pharaoh situation. 

“No, let’s slow down, I just nudged him in the right direction, and he did it all pretty much by himself -” 

A more forceful approach was thus in order. “I’m not going to kill the Pharaoh. So leave me alone,” he snapped, with as much disgust as he could summon. 

And he saw Crowley recoil, as if he’d been slapped. 

It was just a moment, and the demon recovered quickly, his features smoothing over as if Aziraphale hadn’t said anything at all. 

Crowley had never flinched like that before. _No,_ Aziraphale corrected himself. He’d never _seen_ Crowley flinch before. That didn’t mean he’d never done it before, when they traded barbs. It wasn’t personal, it was just business, and it was natural that sometimes a remark might hit too close to home - 

A fresh wave of guilt surged up, but he tamped it down. He _had_ to. 

“Go away, demon,” he said, remembering the old lines. “I don’t want to talk to you anymore.” He’d said the words before, on more than one occasion, but now they stung coming out, half-stuck in his throat, and he saw hurt flicker across the demon’s face, before it was all smoothed over again. 

“Right,” said Crowley. “I can see you’re not in a chatty mood today. Enjoy your day, won’t you?” The demon’s lips twisted into something that could be mistaken for a smirk, if they hadn’t been pressed so tightly together. He turned away from Aziraphale too quickly to be casual, and strode away, never looking back. 

Aziraphale watched Crowley go, until he couldn’t see him anymore. Then he spread his wings and took flight. He’d get the scroll, first. 

Then, there were words to be had with the Pharaoh. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're approaching the end of Act 2 now. I got a professional exam to pass next weekend but will do my best to maintain a somewhat regular update schedule.
> 
> A clarification on the blasted ritual: Lilith managed to travel back in time two hours. Razikael is twelve times more powerful, and thus should be able to travel back in time at least twenty-four hours. However, for whatever reason (not reading the instructions properly, sacrifice not powerful enough, etc.) she's only managing six hours. In any case, Razikael would either need both to be a throne-equivalent level in power to have the potential to travel back in time "a few years," and to get a sufficiently large sacrifice that does not bottleneck the power in the ritual. Neither requirement is practical (powerful demons generally being a bit unstable and difficult to collaborate with, Crowley being harder to catch than a garden-variety snake), so Aziraphale is hoping that he can reason with Razikael to end the loops instead.


	14. Catching up on Paperwork

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aziraphale visits the Pharaoh. Apologies for the double post, I accidentally deleted the chapter instead of correcting a typo.

Once again, Aziraphale faced off with the Vizier at the entrance to the royal apartments, as a half-dozen guards looked on. “The son of Aten is not receiving audiences today,” said the Vizier, and he scowled at the angel from beneath heavy brows.

“Well. He’ll make a special case for me,” said Aziraphale, careful to stand out of striking range of the guards’ spears. He pulled the scroll out of his bag and held it in front of him. 

The Vizier squinted at the rolled-up parchment. “What’s that? Harvest records? The son of Aten does not trouble himself with such trivialities -” 

“It’s not last year’s harvest records, you -” Aziraphale saw the Vizier’s eyes narrow, and revised his words accordingly. “It’s the occult scroll he’s been seeking for the last several months,” he said, and he saw the gears grind to life behind the Vizier’s eyes. “The scroll,” Aziraphale repeated, “is the last of a set of seven.” 

Aziraphale could almost hear the moment when everything finally clicked together in the Vizier’s mind. “Of course,” he said smoothly, transforming from former general to career bureaucrat without a beat, and he extended a hand to take the scroll. “I’ll make sure it gets to the Pharaoh.” 

“Like last time?” scoffed Aziraphale. “You illiterates _lost_ the scroll last time because you couldn’t distinguish demonic from demotic.” The Vizier looked unimpressed, so Aziraphale tried a different tack. “The pharaoh _wants _to speak to me,” he intoned, with the haughtiness only a head scribe could muster. “If you send me away, he’ll send you on bended knee to beg me to return, assuming you survive his disappointment.” 

“Don’t threaten me,” growled the Vizier. He put his hand on the hilt of his sword. 

“It’s not a threat. It’s a promise,” said Aziraphale, but he saw the Vizier’s resolve waver, so took a step closer and dropped his voice to an ominous whisper. “Hasn’t the Pharaoh been in a foul mood lately? Did he shout at you to leave him with his scrolls? Did he send your men out into the city on inane errands, to search for one messenger or ship captain among many?”

The Vizier shuffled his feet. “Alright,” he said. “I’ll grant you an audience with the son of Aten. But we’ll be watching you closely, _scribe_.” 

“Finally,” huffed Aziraphale. 

He proceeded down the white-stone corridor, with the Vizier and two guards at his heels. Gaudy painted pillars loomed over them all. 

The Vizier opened the door of the study, where the Pharaoh stood, gazing out the window. “The Head Scribe requests an audience,” said the Vizier formally. The two guards swept past him to stand between Aziraphale and the Pharaoh. 

Razikael turned at the Vizier’s announcement. Her face was haggard and drawn, but her eyes lit up with a manic gleam when she saw Aziraphale. “Principality,” she said. “I wondered if you’d received my message.” 

“I did,” said Aziraphale, and he drew the scroll from his bag, holding it in front of him like a weapon. 

“I would very much like to read it,” she said, with naked longing in her voice. Almost involuntarily, she reached for the scroll. Aziraphale took a step away from her outstretched arm. Razikael jerked at the movement, and dropped her arm back to her side.

“I’d prefer to read it _for _you, if it’s all the same,” said Aziraphale. 

“You? You’re an angel. You can barely make out where one word begins and the other ends,” said Razikael. Her face hardened. “You’d need years to translate the scroll. Unless... unless you had a demon to help you.” 

No. Crowley had suffered enough. He wouldn’t implicate him in the time loop. “Demon? The only demon involved in this time loop is you,” said Aziraphale.

Razikael flicked her tongue out, tasting the air. “Liar,” she said. 

“Don’t doubt me,” said Aziraphale. “I’m the scribe overseer, after all. Of course I can translate a bit of prose by myself -” 

“Who helped you? Was it -” she smiled, suddenly. “My head priest, of course. No wonder I haven’t seen him in ages. He was with you the whole time.” 

“Him? _Crawley_? No. Of course not. We’ve got centuries of bad blood between us,” said Aziraphale. “Pushed me into a pit of crocodiles once, when I told him I wouldn’t leave Egypt to his influence.” He allowed bitterness and regret to tinge his words. It wasn’t hard. “If he had any notion what was good for him, he’d go to Mexico and never come back. He’s the last soul I’d want to involve in this time loop.” 

He waited, wondering if Razikael would believe him - 

“Then who?” she demanded. 

“Daeva’s in Nubia nowadays,” he said. 

“I see,” Razikael murmured, apparently mollified, and Aziraphale’s heart leapt in victory. He forced himself to keep breathing, even and slow. “Well, go on, Principality. What does it say?” 

“It’s an experiment log detailing attempts to prolong the reach of the time loop,” said Aziraphale. 

“And? Did any of them work?” 

“No,” said Aziraphale. “The author, Lilith, ultimately failed to make time go backwards more than an hour, when she needed centuries. Lilith wanted to reverse her Fall, you see -” 

“I know,” said Razikael. “She came to me, babbling about old friendships, and how she knew I was the only one who could understand what had been lost.” 

“What happened to her?” he asked. _Where is she? Are you still trying to undo the Fall - _

“I killed her,” said the Pharaoh steadily. 

Aziraphale felt his stomach drop abruptly. _Of course you did_, he thought. 

“She should have come within the safety of a loop. Then neither flaming sword nor Holy Water could have hurt her - she was smart enough to build her ritual to withstand not only discorporation, but total destruction. I think only an act of God could have stopped the ritual. Or she should have struck me with Mnemosyne,” said Razikael. She unsheathed the silvery knife from her belt, turning it over in the light of the Pharaoh’s study. “Then I might have remembered a time before the Fall, as well. But that fool, she came to me for help, relying on our former acquaintance, and I turned her to _nothing_.” 

Aziraphale said nothing, the skin of Holy Water heavy in his bag. It was still worth a try - 

Razikael was still speaking. “Then I took that knife, Mnemosyne, from her body, and the first of the seven scrolls. It wasn’t until later that I realized I could use the ritual as well to - to correct injustices that have been wrought. And I thought it would be easier, because I wouldn’t have to go all the way back to the Fall, but it took _years_ to translate the first scroll, and to find all the others from her hidey-holes across the country.” 

_Years? Crowley only took a few weeks, maybe months at the most -_

“Do you know why I began the ritual without the seventh scroll?” she said, interrupting the angel’s thoughts, but not waiting for him to answer. “Or, why I began the ritual as soon as I had gleaned enough from the first scroll? It takes _too long_ to decipher the damned text. I suspected the duration of the time loop was constrained by the magnitude of my power, and I would _not_ see my work obsolete before I finished the full translation. What if I had only ten years of causality at best, but it took me twenty to read all the scrolls? That would render my efforts wholly worthless.” 

“We did some calculations,” said Aziraphale, glad to be on familiar footing at last, and he explained, carefully, how Lilith had realized that all her improvements in the ritual were marginal at best. “You only have enough power to travel back a day, at most. Only a Duke of Hell, or an archdemon could travel back more than a year,” he concluded, hoping that he hadn’t bungled the paraphrase of Crowley’s explanation the previous afternoon. 

“A Duke of Hell,” repeated Razikael.

“Well, each step up in the hierarchy is a twelvefold increase in power, and you’ve managed about six hours of causality now, so for _years_ of causality, you’d need to go up at least three, if not four rungs up the ladder to have the power you need. Don’t you see? It’s _mathematically impossible_ for you to go back far enough for you to correct your injustices.”

Razikael regarded Aziraphale steadily for a while, before she spoke again. “Principality, I cannot accept that impossibility.” 

“So you won’t end the loops? It’s pointless, you don’t have enough power -” 

“I could get help.” 

“Help from whom? Besides, if the sacrifice is bottlenecking the range of the ritual, it’s functionally impossible for you to travel back more than six hours at a time!” He hadn’t meant for that to slip out, but the ramifications of exactly _which_ sacrifice was required seemed to have passed her by.

“I cannot stop trying,” said Razikael. “And if you knew what mistake I was trying to correct, then you would understand why.” 

“Then help me understand -” 

“You would never understand,” said Razikael. “I know your type, Principality. Your only loyalty is to the light of Heaven, and all that entails.” 

“I understand that Lilith developed the ritual because Mnemosyne brought back her memory of the time before the Fall,” said Aziraphale.

That actually brought Razikael pause. “Go on,” she said. 

Emboldened by her hesitation, Aziraphale continued with renewed confidence, spreading a hand before him to illustrate his point. “She wanted to travel back in time, to return to the Almighty’s light that she remembered. You’d forgotten that too, until Mnemosyne brought your memory back too. It was an injustice to Fall, to forget it all, and then remember it all over again. How could you live with the knowledge of what you’d lost? But unlike Lilith, you’re not trying to undo your Fall,” he said, remembering that Razikael only wanted to travel a few years back in time. “You’re only trying to go back far enough so that you’d never used Mnemosyne in the first place.” 

The Pharaoh’s eyes narrowed, her lips grew thin, and she raised her palm. “That’s enough,” she said. 

“But don’t you see, it wouldn’t work, because if you went back in time, how else would you remember not to use Mnemosyne? I think there’s a paradox in there somewhere -”

“Principality,” interrupted Razikael, “you’ve badly misjudged. I am not some coward who cannot live with their own memories. And I do not care one whit about the Fall.” 

“Oh,” said Aziraphale faintly. “Then what do you care about?”

“Not much, nowadays,” said Razikael carelessly. “However, you’ve brought to my attention that the seventh scroll may have information that can help me explore additional avenues to my research. You’ll understand if I need to verify the full text with an independent source.” 

“What independent source? Read it for yourself,” said Aziraphale. 

“Your demon accomplice seemed rather adept at translation,” said Razikael. “As for you -” She appraised Aziraphale, before continuing. 

“Early on, you broke into my study, to convince me to end the loops. And you’ve spent most of the time since trying to translate the scroll, and bringing me the _revelation _that the loop has never worked, in a desperate attempt to convince me, yet again, to give up,” said Razikael. “May I conclude that you are eager to see, for once, what tomorrow brings? Do you miss the sight of the moon and the stars and the rising sun?” 

Aziraphale said nothing. 

“Once, I told you that it would have been best for everyone if you’d never interfered. So I offer you a proposition. I’ll end this loop -”

“Thank you,” gasped Aziraphale. 

“I wasn’t done,” said Razikael. “I’ll end this loop if you give me the scroll, and if you bring me the demon Crowley.”

“Crowley? Why him?” said Aziraphale, panic rising in his throat like bile. “It was Daeva who helped -” 

“I’m all too familiar with Daeva’s brand of _help_,” said Razikael, “for I once attempted to secure her assistance in my translation. She is the reason I inhabit the Pharaoh’s body and not my original corporation. At the very least, her library was fairly comprehensive, and I was able to discreetly acquire some texts that assisted me in completing the translation by myself. Clever of you to protect your sources, Principality, but your efforts are in vain. I _know_ Crowley helped you.” 

“He didn’t -” 

“Don’t lie to me, Principality,” said Razikael. “It doesn’t become you.” 

“Well, what do you want with Crowley?” said Aziraphale. His mind spun as he reached slowly for the skin of Holy Water in his bag. If he could distract Razikael for long enough - 

“We’re going to spend some time together, doing research,” said Razikael. “The same way that he helped you, I imagine.” 

“He’s even less cooperative than I am,” said Aziraphale. “Never met a more contrary soul. He’ll never help you.” 

“I’m very persuasive,” said Razikael. 

“Well, you won’t find him,” said Aziraphale. “Crowley’s slippery that way. Haven’t got a clue where he is right now.” 

Razikael’s tongue flicked out. “But you know how to find him,” she said. “You must have, to secure his assistance in the translation.” 

“You can’t torture that information out of me,” said Aziraphale. 

“I don’t need to,” said Razikael. “My offer stands. Bring me both Crowley and the scroll, and I promise you I will end this loop. Since you’ve already got the scroll with you, be a good sport and leave it here when you go.” 

“You don’t need Crowley. I memorized the translation, and because of the time loop, I’m the only one who remembers the full text -” 

“I think we’re done here,” said Razikael. She nodded at the two guards beside him. “Escort the scribe out, but make sure he leaves the scroll,” she ordered. 

“No,” protested Aziraphale, as the guards approached. He pulled the bulging waterskin from his bag with his free hand. “This is Holy Water. Another move from either of your guards and I’ll use it on you -” 

“Weren’t you listening? Destroying me wouldn’t end the loop. Lilith was too clever for that,” snapped Razikael. With another flick of her wrist, the waterskin exploded. Instinctively, he flung the hand holding the scroll away from his body to protect the parchment. His face caught the brunt of the blast and he stood, spluttering, as a guard barreled into his midsection in a flying tackle.

The other guard pried the damp parchment out from Aziraphale’s fingers as he lay flat on his back, short of breath and grappling one-handed with the guard sitting on his chest. The parchment tore out of his grasp, and the other guard hauled the angel to his feet. He’d hoped that a droplet of Holy Water might have hit the Pharaoh, but she remained standing at the back of the study, with a supremely irritated look on her face. 

“It’s wet,” said the guard with the parchment. 

“I can see that,” snapped Razikael. “Lay it on the desk.” 

The guard smoothed the scroll as well as he could on the pharaoh’s desk. The ink hadn’t run a bit. Aziraphale cursed that Lilith hadn’t used papyrus instead - that would surely have fallen apart when it got wet. Razikael pinched the bridge of her nose between her fingers and exhaled noisily. “At least the text is still legible. You may not be in the mood to leave, Principality, but I must insist. You think about my offer while you’re up at Head Office, won’t you?” Her aura swelled up, as she approached, heavy and metallic like the air before a rainstorm. 

“No, no no no -” said Aziraphale, and then Razikael pulled out a silvery knife and cut his throat. 

He recognized the knife as Mnemosyne, even as blood filled his windpipe and cut off his plea, and memories rushed forwards to fill the void -

_He was standing on the riverbank, sending Crowley away with harsh words. He barely recognized his own voice -_

Aziraphale pitched forward to his knees, scrabbling at his throat to try and heal it, but the Pharaoh’s study darkened and spun around him. 

_Crowley's face was dangerously close to his own as the demon tried to steady them both against the doorframe of Aziraphale’s living room - _

He lay on the floor, blood splattering in front of him. Razikael turned to the Vizier and said, “Find the head priest. I much desire to learn what his daily duties entail.” 

_Menet and Khapet bickered over the strategies they'd employed during the last round of dice in the tavern courtyard. Crowley caught Aziraphale’s eye from across the table, and smiled cautiously, with a newfound glimmer of hope in his eyes - _

Aziraphale healed his wounds just enough to choke out, “You don’t need -” 

_Crowley sat at Aziraphale’s kitchen table, gloating about the symbolism of serpents, with a grin plastered on his face, and Aziraphale couldn’t help but feel a little tug at the corner of his own lips -_

Razikael pressed her foot on Aziraphale’s neck, reopening the wounds, and he bled anew on the white-stone floor. He struggled the whole time, trying to dislodge her weight. In the end, his corporation gave out, and he was pulled upwards to Heaven. 

**∽⧗∼**

Aziraphale landed with a tumble in the atrium, and picked himself up without a moment to reel from the mortal wound to his neck. The earth spun slowly in its glass cylinder, as the janitor set out a bunch of orange cones and a “Danger: Slippery Floor” sign on the white stone floor. The escalators were still out of order, completely blocked off with construction fencing. He didn’t pay them any heed. He needed a body, and there was one person who could get him one without the mandated paperwork.

“Blimey,” said the janitor. Aziraphale rushed right past him and skidded in front of the elevator door. He punched the silver button on the wall repeatedly until they slid open. Then he pressed the button for Human Resources. The doors closed, and the elevator rose upwards. “Come on, come on,” he murmured. 

The door opened at last. “Human Resources,” said the voice. 

Aziraphale sprinted down the halls of Heaven. Hundreds of eyes turned towards him from the cubicles as his see-through sandaled feet slapped against the divine carpet. 

He ignored them and barreled through the door of Gabriel’s office, to come face-to-face with the archangel as he sat behind his desk. 

“Hello, Aziraphale,” said Gabriel. “So good to see you. But so soon! Was it that demon again -”

“Listen, it is critical that I get a body and return to Egypt, right now,” said Aziraphale. “I’ve got to prevent the forces of Hell from gathering and wreaking _unspeakable_ havoc on the time-space continuum.” It was technically true. He’d rather Razikael not bring Crowley to her side. 

“Really? I don’t remember reading about any of that in your reports,” said Gabriel. His smile was maddening. 

“We’re all stuck in a time loop, there’s a demon in the Pharaoh’s body, and he’s going to torture a translation out of Cro -” began Aziraphale, and then corrected himself to get to the point. “It’s an emergency!” 

“Bad luck on your part does not necessitate an emergency on mine,” said Gabriel. “Egypt is _your_ responsibility. If the country goes to Hell in a handbasket, that’s on you.” 

“Did you miss the part where we’re _all_ stuck in a time loop?” shouted Aziraphale. 

“I see no evidence for the time loop,” said Gabriel. The smile was gone from his face now, replaced by an implacable, ice-cold stare that spoke volumes of why Gabriel was an archangel and Aziraphale was not. The archangel’s shields, normally flawless and imperturbable, had parted slightly, and his aura spilled out, chilling the entire office. 

“Because you weren’t caught in the backlash of the Pharaoh’s ritual,” said Aziraphale, running out of steam in the face of the archangel’s impassivity. 

Gabriel opened up his filing cabinet, and pulled out a file. Aziraphale’s heart sank. “Really? it says here that there’s been no rituals performed in Egypt for the last several years, demonic or otherwise."

“Technically it won’t take place for a few hours, several dozen loops ago,” muttered Aziraphale. 

“Sure it won’t. Because it never happened!” roared Gabriel.

“Well then,” said Aziraphale. “Could you expedite my recorporation paperwork anyway? It really is _paramount _that I return to Egypt -” 

“No,” said Gabriel. 

“But -” said Aziraphale. 

“I said no,” said Gabriel, again, and he stood up. “I won’t expedite your paperwork. One, because you haven’t completed any paperwork to expedite in the first place. Two, because you haven’t got any compelling reason for me to do so.” 

Aziraphale stood up too, but he was shorter than Gabriel, and somewhat transparent, which lessened the intended effect somewhat. “The time loop and the possession aren’t enough?” blustered Aziraphale. 

“And three, because I just don’t want to,” said Gabriel, raising his voice above Aziraphale’s protests. He slammed his fist on the intercom button on his desk. “Security, get in here.” 

The door almost instantaneously, and the office was filled with the smell of cedar. “Sandalphon? I thought you were in communications now -” said Aziraphale. 

Sandalphon grinned, showing the gold cross between his teeth. “You heard?” 

“You mentioned it in another loop,” said Aziraphale.

“Office gossip,” scoffed Gabriel. “We’ve stiffened up security measures ever since the _last_ angel to think they were too good for paperwork escaped back to Earth without a body. Isn’t that right?” 

“Oh, yeah,” said Sandalphon. “Deactivated the observation globe in the atrium until we catch the perp. Front entrance is out, too, without an official pass from your department head.” 

“Yours truly,” said Gabriel, jabbing a thumb at his own chest. “And you won’t get an official pass without official paperwork. Which you’ll be completing in Purgatory.”

“You can’t take me there, I’ve got to go back!” said Aziraphale. He felt Sandalphon’s grasp around his upper arm, and he whirled around to punch the stocky angel in the face. 

It was like punching a large angel-shaped rock, and it _hurt_, even though Aziraphale didn’t have a proper body to speak of. “Ouch,” he said. Then, adding insult to metaphysical injury, Sandalphon wrestled him into a headlock. 

“The only place you’re going is a nice, quiet holding cell where you can _calm the fuck down _and catch up on your paperwork,” said Gabriel, coldly. 

Sandalphon dragged Aziraphale out of the office, still in a headlock, and the door of Gabriel’s office slammed shut behind them. 

“Sandalphon - friend - this isn’t necessary,” pleaded Aziraphale, as the shorter angel all but dragged him down the halls of Heaven. “It’s all just a misunderstanding, but I do need to get a body and get back down to Earth _right now._” 

“Sure thing, buddy,” said Sandalphon, but he didn’t relent. 

“Congratulations on your upcoming promotion, by the way,” said Aziraphale, as he tried to extricate his head from under Sandalphon’s arm. “You got it for the pillar-of-salt thing in Sodom and Gomorrah? Nicely done. Very creative.”

“Mmhm,” grunted Sandalphon. 

“If they send you down to the field, I can help you out. Watch your back. We can team up and thwart demons together,” continued Aziraphale, even though the mere scent of Sandalphon’s cedar aura made him queasy. 

“That would be nice,” said Sandalphon. “But I’ve still got to take you down to Purgatory.” 

“Come on,” begged Aziraphale. “Just let me go back down there, I’ll be back in no time at all.” 

“Without a body?” said Sandalphon skeptically. “

“Well, I’ll find myself a body,” said Aziraphale. 

“Yeah, after you find yourself some incident reports first,” said Sandalphon.

They stepped into the elevator - well, Sandalphon stepped, and Aziraphale shuffled in, still bent under the other angel’s arm. The wall of the elevator was dotted with dozens of buttons. The floor they were on, Human Resources, was in the middle. Sandalphon punched the button second from the bottom. 

The elevator began its descent, and Aziraphale began his struggle anew. It seemed to bother Sandalphon as much as an ibis’s death throes bothered a crocodile. The stocky angel stood and gazed at the elevator doors, as serene as if he was holding a sheaf of files instead of another angel’s neck under his arm. 

“Purgatory,” announced the elevator. 

They exited the elevator together, into a perfectly white hallway that stretched as far as the eye can see. Identical white doors lined the hallway at even intervals. “Settle down,” said Sandalphon. “You’re embarrassing yourself.”

“Sandalphon, friend, please,” said Aziraphale. “I’ll explain everything when I get back -” 

“Nah,” said Sandalphon. “Boss said Purgatory to finish up your paperwork. So Purgatory it is. Here we are.” 

They arrived at an unmarked white door. Sandalphon opened it, revealing an empty white space. It wasn’t a room, because rooms had walls and floors and ceilings. This was just an endless expanse of emptiness. “In you go,” said Sandalphon, and he shoved Aziraphale into the space. 

Aziraphale stumbled, disoriented by the lack of apparent surfaces or anything else in the space. “What about the forms?” he protested.

“They’re in there somewhere,” said Sandalphon. “Just gotta look for it. Somewhere. If you think about it hard enough, it might show up.”

“That’ll take ages!” moaned Aziraphale. 

“Yeah, that’s the point,” said Sandalphon. “Self reflection. It’s good for the soul. Gabriel’ll be down to check on you in a few thousand years. Toodle-loo,” he added. 

“Wait, it’s a matter of cosmic imp-” 

Sandalphon slammed the door shut on Aziraphale’s protests. The door was the only interruption in the emptiness of the holding cell. It was set in the air, nothing Aziraphale jiggled the doorknob fruitlessly, and then beat his fists against the door. 

“Let me out of here,” he shouted. “We’re all trapped in a time loop and I need to get back to Earth. I’ve got to stop the Pharaoh.” 

There was no response except for the echo of his own voice in the void. “_Stop the Pharaoh... stop the Pharaoh..._” 

“Come on,” he screamed, and then he backed up and slammed his shoulder into the door. The door didn’t budge. 

He tried to kick the door in the weak spot near where the lock was mounted, like Crowley had taught him. “Lean into the kick,” he had said. “Don’t use your shoulder.” Aziraphale reared back and kicked the door again, to no effect. He could tell Crowley that his door-kicking advice was rubbish next time they met. 

If they met again. If the Pharaoh’s guards caught Crowley, and Razikael conducted her ritual again, Aziraphale wouldn’t be able to help. Crowley would be the one trapped in the Pharaoh’s next gander at a time loop.

Aziraphale renewed his efforts to break down the door, beating it with his fists until it felt like they might bleed. But that was the crux of the problem, in that he didn’t have a body and couldn’t bleed, much less break down the door. 

“But if the door opens inwards, you’re probably - what do you scamps call it nowadays? - boned,” said a voice behind him, and Aziraphale thought - hoped - that maybe it was Crowley. But it wasn’t. It was the janitor. He leaned casually against the doorframe, mop and bucket nowhere to be seen. 

“How’d you get in here?” said Aziraphale, scanning his prison for the maintenance access. 

“I was always here,” said the janitor. “You, on the other hand - weren’t supposed to come back at all. Suppose that’s what I get for fiddling with free will.” He looked right at Aziraphale. His eyes, which the angel would have sworn were brown, were an endless field of stars. A memory returned to Aziraphale, of the last time he’d been at Head Office - 

“You,” he gasped.

“Me,” said the janitor. 

“So, you’re here to let me out, right?” he said weakly. 

“No.” 

“Or make sure that Crowley doesn’t get caught by the guards?” 

“Lad, you know I don't poke around in the world like that anymore. Y'know, give a man a fish, and he eats for a day. Let the man fall into a piranha-infested river and he..." The janitor scratched his grey-bearded chin thoughtfully. "Well, he'll build a lot of character if he survives."

"Build character?" repeated Aziraphale. Any hope he'd felt when the janitor had appeared was swiftly evaporating.

"Yep," said the janitor.

“Then why bother showing yourself in the first place?” said Aziraphale, his hands beginning to clench into fists. 

“Just dropped by to visit, but I can tell you’re not in a chatty mood. So I’ll cut to the chase.” The janitor stood upright, no longer leaning against the doorframe. 

“What -” 

“Quit your whinging,” said the janitor, with a sudden, terrible coldness. “You have no paperwork. All exits from Heaven are sealed. You could Fall, if you like, but Hell won’t send diplomatic assistance for a defector like you, and you’ll still be stuck in here. Do you understand? There is _no way out_.” 

The janitor’s eyes bored into Aziraphale’s. If it had been like looking into a field of stars before, it was now like looking directly into the sun. The light spread over his vision, burning away the janitor and his words and leaving the angel even more alone than he had been a few moments ago, even though he did not completely understand why. 

Then the green light came wiped away the terrible emptiness of the holding cell. For once, Aziraphale felt relieved - it meant the afternoon was restarting, it meant that Razikael had not captured Crowley to translate the scrolls, it meant that he was still safe from the Pharaoh. He could still fix things. There was still hope. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Flashbacks brought to you by that time that Frodo looked into the mirror of Galadriel. I've made minor edits to Chapter 1 and 4 so that Mnemosyne's effects are consistent throughout the story. 
> 
> Also, I lied. I said the last chapter was the end of Act 2. But Act 2 is the darkest point in the protagonist's journey, and I don't think we're quite there yet. So, THIS is the second last chapter of Act 2.


	15. Lie Low at Aten's

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aziraphale tips Crowley off, and then there is peril.

“I don’t see what the problem is,” said Crowley. 

The one small blessing he had was that Razikael didn’t know where they started the loop, so she wouldn’t know the warning that Aziraphale was about to pass on. He grabbed Crowley by his shoulders in the middle of his reassurances that nothing was untoward in the kingdom. “Keep your head low,” he said urgently. “The Pharaoh’s got it out for you.” 

Crowley looked taken aback. “What for?” he said. “The economy is booming. The Kingdom’s at -” 

Aziraphale racked his memory of the loops for something that Crowley might or might not have done recently to tread upon the Pharaoh’s good graces. He let go of the demon and settled on, “He suspects you might have been involved in the incident at the glassworks.” 

“What?” squawked Crowley. “That place has got furnaces up the wazoo; it’s a miracle it hasn’t taken out the whole city already -” 

“- yes, but -” said Aziraphale. 

“I was nowhere near the glassworks!” 

“ - he wants you in for questioning regardless, Crowley -” 

“In fact, nobody was even inside the workshop when it burned down!”

“Look, just lie low for a while, alright?” said Aziraphale desperately. “Leave town, if you can.” 

“I can handle a few guards,” said Crowley obstinately. 

“They’re under the Pharaoh’s protection,” said Aziraphale. “I think it’s their amulets, or maybe she’s shielding them all simultaneously - regardless, it’s harder to give them the slip nowadays.” 

Crowley looked thoughtful as he scratched his chin. “I think you’re right,” he said. “One of them _noticed_ my eyes last week. Then another one asked me why I hadn’t shaved my head, if I was a priest.” 

“And?” said Aziraphale. 

“I thought my shielding was slipping,” said Crowley. “But it wasn’t. So, I told them it was rude to stare.” 

“Did that work?” said Aziraphale. 

“Not really,” said Crowley. “Had to go full snake to get any peace and quiet, and I don’t think it would’ve worked if they’d been hellbent on making small talk.” He shrugged. “Snakes have been a lot less impressive since the Aten thing.” Aziraphale felt a shift in the air, and then Crowley asked, “How’re my shields now?” 

Aziraphale glanced over Crowley’s shields. They _appeared_ adequate. If Aziraphale didn’t _really_ look at Crowley, he’d see a nondescript bald man with brown eyes, instead of a demon with red hair and golden eyes. But Aziraphale could still sense a sort of earnestness projecting from Crowley. He felt mildly embarrassed, as if he was intruding on a private conversation, so he took a step back and hardened up his own shields in response. “They’re fine, visually speaking,” he said. “You could stand to tighten them up a bit though; you’re projecting a bit.” 

“Hrm,” grumbled Crowley. The cloud of earnestness dissipated from the riverbanks, and Aziraphale let out a breath he hadn’t known he was holding. “Better now?” 

“Yes,” said Aziraphale. “Anyways, I’ve got to go. Just - keep an eye out, yes? Better yet, spend the afternoon in Thebes. Just anywhere but here. It’d be a shame if the Pharaoh’s men did you in.” 

“Yeah, yeah,” grumbled Crowley. 

“It’s _important,_” said Aziraphale. “They’re after me too.” 

“You? You’re the best scribe overseer in five hundred years -” 

“The assistant overseer could do my job in his sleep, and I’ve been in head scribe for three hundred years, besides -” 

“You know what I mean. How’d you land on the Pharaoh’s shit list?” 

“It doesn’t matter,” said Aziraphale, desperately trying to keep the conversation on track and on schedule. “The guards have discorporated - nearly discorporated me several times already.” 

“Shit,” said Crowley, joviality gone. He worried one of the bracelets around his wrist restlessly. 

“I’ve got to the Records Hall to get myself out of this mess, so just - just watch yourself, alright?” said the angel, nodding a goodbye. 

“Right,” said Crowley. “Thanks for the tip.” 

And he sauntered away, whistling a three-note melody. 

A moment went by before Aziraphale recognized the tune and the phrasing of the whistled notes. It was a children’s chant, a priest’s rite, a whispered prayer. _Spit on Apep, kick the Apep, smite the Apep, burn the Apep..._

**∽⧗∼**

Aziraphale rummaged through his storage room in the basement of the Records Hall, dimly lit from beyond the mortal plane. He was searching for something - anything - that would lend him an edge in a confrontation with Razikael. 

The translation was complete, but he’d retrieved the demonic scroll from the barge lest it wind up in the Pharaoh’s possession instead. It sat innocently on the table in the storage room, blissfully unaware of the different parties vying for possession. He ought to destroy it this loop, to ensure that it would be impossible for Razikael to sink her claws into both Crowley and the scroll. But Crowley had now been forewarned that Razikael had set her sights on garnering his assistance, and Aziraphale didn’t doubt that the demon was canny enough to evade a few guards. He kept the scroll intact to serve as leverage that he hoped he wouldn’t need during this particular iteration of the Tuesday afternoon. 

He needed the loops to end. Only Razikael could end the loops. But in return, she wanted Crowley and the seventh scroll. The bargain was naturally - no, _strategically _unacceptable. Once Aziraphale handed over the scroll, she’d perform the ritual again, this time trapping Crowley in it with her, until she’d refined the spell sufficiently to correct whatever burning injustice drove Razikael to relive Tuesday afternoon over and over again. That was an impossible goal, and he feared the consequences if Razikael made a second attempt at the ritual. Would millions of iterations of the time loop erode the stability of the space-time continuum? Could she single-handedly plunge the universe into entropic chaos? Or could Razikael halt the flow of time forever? 

The guards were another complicating matter. Anywhere the Pharaoh went, the guards followed. He couldn’t get a word in edgewise with Razikael without getting stabbed or shot full of arrows. The balance of power between Aziraphale and Razikael was inherently unequal before either of them even spoke. Individually, the guards weren’t particularly powerful, but they were all decent fighters, shielded from supernatural manipulation, and undyingly loyal to the son of Aten. 

Aziraphale couldn’t do anything about the first two, but Crowley’s suggestion of drawing on the local religion had promise in dealing with the third. He wanted something frightening and flashy. Unfortunately, the angel had only a basic familiarity with the ins and outs of the local mythos, and flashy was inherently the demon’s domain. The _Book of the Dead_ had yielded nothing appropriate, and neither had a _Prophecy of Nefertiti_. 

Which was why he was still searching through the shelves of the storeroom. Perhaps the answers lay tucked in between the _Maxims of Ptahotep_ and the _Instructions of Kagemni_. He groped blindly in the shelves, feeling a tablet, and pulled it out. 

It was the seventh Sumerian tablet. It had been a long time since he’d read it, having left the story off in the aftermath of Gilgamesh and Enkidu’s victory over the Bull of Heaven. 

His resolve wavered. He had actual religious texts to study, and this was a _romance, _of all things. But it wouldn’t take long for him to see how the battle was resolved. So he settled down cross-legged at the table in the storeroom, and read about how Gilgamesh and Enkidu paraded their battle-trophies through the City of Uruk, and how the city had feasted with them until midnight. 

> _When the daylight came, the gods took counsel together, and said, “Because they have killed Humbaba who guarded the Cedar Mountain, and because they have killed the Bull of Heaven, one of the two must die. Let Enkidu die, for Gilgamesh must not!” _

“No,” gasped Aziraphale. He skimmed the passage again to ensure that he hadn’t misread it. 

> _And then Enkidu sickened. His strength faltered, and his tears ran down in streams, and he said to Gilgamesh, “O my friend, so dear as you are to me, friend, yet they will take me from you.”_

His stomach turned. The story wasn’t supposed to go _there_, Gilgamesh and Enkidu were supposed to go on more adventures together -

He heard faraway footsteps coming down the stairs into the basement of the Records Hall, punctuating the assistant scribe overseer’s protests. “The head scribe’s the only one with the keys - access to this area is restricted - what are you _doing_ -” 

Aziraphale’s approval for the assistant scribe overseer’s dedication to the upkeep of the archives was interrupted by a meaty thump that silenced the man’s protests, followed by the sound of splintering wood. _That’ll be the guards, then_. He reminded himself to give the assistant scribe overseer a raise after he’d broken Razikael’s time loop. 

Another splintering crash. This time, closer. 

He scanned the storeroom desperately. There was only one exit and no windows. 

The crashing noises were getting louder. 

The doorknob to the storage room jiggled. He scooped up the demonic scroll into his bag, and with the smallest miracle he could spare, pressed himself against the ceiling and put the light out. 

The door cracked at the lock, and flew inwards. Four guards stomped in, their paths lit with smoky torches. The assistant scribe overseer dogged their heels, clutching his abdomen with both hands. 

“Can’t see shit back here,” said a guard, peering into the darkness. 

“Pah, he’s not in here anyways. Same way he’s not anywhere else in the Records Hall. Pharaoh says he hasn’t been to work in ages.” 

“Alright, torch the place.” 

“What? No, you can’t - “ spluttered the assistant scribe overseer. 

“Best way to flush out a rat,” said the guard. “Or send a reminder, says the Pharaoh. Whatever that means.” 

One of the guards touched his torch to the scrolls on the shelf. The dry papyrus caught fire almost instantly. 

“If you run, you might be able to warn the others,” said another guard, in an ugly voice. 

The assistant scribe overseer didn’t need to be told twice. His slap of sandals in the hallway was drowned out by the crackling of the fire as it spread rapidly to the wooden shelves. 

Aziraphale kept himself pressed against the ceiling even as texts went up in flames all around him. The smoke stung his eyes as he strained his ears for the sound of the guard’s retreat. Then, when the shelves began to collapse and he could not wait any longer, he dropped carefully down from the ceiling and pushed his way out of the storeroom. 

The entire corridor was ablaze. Before him, overhead rafters were collapsing. 

Could he even summon rain indoors? He pulled on the power around him, but the water hit the flames and erupted uselessly in steam. It was taking all his power to hold off the heat - 

There was still the windows, high up, from which pale light shone. He scrabbled at the walls, trying to hoist himself up through the windows. He suddenly felt hands grasping at his legs and he kicked instinctively. 

The hands let go. “It’s me, you - ungrateful - _argh,_” said a familiar voice. 

“Crowley?” said Aziraphale incredulously. “What’re you doing here?” 

“What does it look like I’m doing?” said the demon, clutching his face where Aziraphale had kicked him.

“Er,” said Aziraphale. 

“I’m saving your sorry arse,” said Crowley, answering his own question. He grabbed Aziraphale’s legs and pushed upwards. The beginnings of a spectacular black eye blossomed around his eye. “Oh, fuck, just - lay off the beer, would you?” he said, as Aziraphale struggled to pull himself through the window. 

At last, the angel emerged on the other side of the window. He put his head back through the window to see that Crowley taking a running start towards the window. “Take my hand,” he called, dangling his arm through the window. 

Crowley leapt, and caught the angel’s arm, just as the ceiling began to collapse around him. Aziraphale pulled the demon through the window, with significantly less difficulty than when Crowley had pushed him out of the Records Hall. 

They scrambled away from the burning building, half stumbling, half running, until they melded into the gathering crowd. Aziraphale turned back to stare at the Records Hall, to see flames shoot up from the thatch roof at intermittent intervals as parts of the ceiling fell, fuelling fires with fresh air. He wasn’t fond of the squat mud-brick building, but it was still a place of _learning _and _scholarship_ \- 

Crowley grabbed Aziraphale’s arm, abruptly ending the angel’s mourning period for the state of erudition in the Kingdom. “What the fuck did you _do_?” he breathed. 

“What do you mean?” said Aziraphale. 

“You know as well as I that the Pharaoh couldn’t care less about harvest records, but -” he inhaled sharply before continuing. “I heard the guards, at the front, saying something about sending the head scribe a message, but I _know_ for a fact that you had nothing to do with the glassworks incident -” He ran a hand through his soot-streaked hair. “So, what did you _do?” _

“Nothing recent,” said Aziraphale. 

“Oh yes, because _that’s_ certainly nothing recent,” said Crowley, waving at the burning Records Hall. “Have it your way, then. What _didn’t _you do?” 

Crowley was beginning to draw attention, and he needed to get them both away from the Records Hall. “I read something I wasn’t supposed to,” said Aziraphale vaguely. 

“Oh, was it clandestine correspondence with the Nubian emissary? Bribes to construct a new monument to the Aten in Memphis? Or was it his Majesty’s very secret diary?” Crowley said, looked increasingly annoyed with every conjecture. 

“Not out here. Come on,” said Aziraphale, in a low voice. “Do you know anywhere that we can speak safely? They already know where I live.” 

“What do you mean, _they already know where you live_, don’t you use wards to keep the door-to-door solicitors out?” 

“Look, I’ll explain later, but not _here_.” 

“There’s my house, to the south -” 

“We can’t go there, either, in case we’re being tailed.” 

“The temple sanctuary? It’s restricted to priests only, and I’ve got them all under my thumb, even Harnu, that bastard.” 

“That should suffice,” said Aziraphale. 

The two of them walked quickly away from the conflagration that had once been the Records Hall, with Aziraphale intermittently checking over his shoulder for guards the whole way. 

It wasn’t until they crossed the temple courtyard, with its lotus-filled ponds, and the central red-tiled Aten-disk and long ray-shaped flowerbeds, that Aziraphale felt safe again. “This way,” said Crowley, gesturing towards a door left ajar at the back of the sanctuary complex. 

Aziraphale entered the room first. It was a meeting room and furnished with a long, narrow table and a dozen wooden chairs. The Aten-disk had been carved into the low back of each chair, replete with long, linear sunrays. Linen-filtered sunlight illuminated yet another mural of the Pharaoh Akhenaten praising the sun, this time surrounded by barges full of gold and merchandise. He wondered if this room had been the one where Crowley had once threatened Harnu’s mother in front of the temple budget committee. 

Crowley closed the door behind them, careful to make sure that it was locked. Then he turned to Aziraphale “Are you going to explain now?” he hissed, through clenched teeth. His pupils were wide with fear. 

“We’re all trapped in a time loop, the Pharaoh is possessed, and I need a way to scare off the guards, but I don’t know enough mythology to do that,” rushed Aziraphale. 

“Uh,” said Crowley. “Come again?” 

And Aziraphale told him the full story as they sat at the meeting table. 

“- and so the Pharaoh wants _you_ and the scroll, and I can’t exactly hand either of them over, right? Who knows what she’s going to do -” 

“So, you holed up in the library,” said Crowley, nodding. “Which went really well, by the way -” 

“How’d you find me?” interrupted Aziraphale.

“You said you’d be at the Records Hall, doing research,” said Crowley. Then he paused, and added sheepishly, “I also put a short-term tracking ward on you.” 

“That’s a bit invasive, isn’t it?” 

“Oh, come off it, it only activates when someone’s in peril -” 

“I wasn’t in peril.” 

“Trapped in a burning building isn’t peril? Then what is?” 

Aziraphale ignored the question, but asked, “Show me how to cast it.” 

Crowley did something complicated with his hands. The angel felt the ward settle on him, but it was much lighter than any other ward he’d felt, and would have been imperceptible if he hadn’t known to look for it. He tried to imitate the demon’s movements. Crowley shook his head. “It’s in the wrist,” he said, and took Aziraphale’s hand to demonstrate the motion. 

“I see,” said Aziraphale softly. “How about you? I _told_ you to go to Thebes -” 

“Give me some credit. I can shake a few guards off my tail,” said Crowley. 

“Good,” said Aziraphale. It meant that they hadn’t caught up to Crowley the previous loop, and that they hadn’t figured out his daily schedule, or where he lived - 

There was a knock on the door. 

“Maybe it’s the janitor,” said Crowley. 

“I somehow doubt it,” said Aziraphale, his heart sinking. He was sure they hadn’t been followed - unless Razikael was shielding the guards from his scans as well? 

A second, louder knock followed.

“Door-to-door biscuit girls?” suggested the demon nervously. 

Aziraphale’s appetite for honey biscuits had waned somewhat of late. “The window,” he whispered. They might be able to flee the guards on the open ground of the temple gardens, but not in the hallways of the sanctuary.

An inopportune gust of wind blew the linen shades inwards as he was climbing up on the windowsill, and he struggled to push them out of his face. He clambered blindly out the window, Crowley close behind. 

A squad of guards awaited right outside the window. Some were armed with bows and arrows, some with swords, and some with spears. How had he missed all of them? He ran another mental scan over the area, and felt nothing to mark their presence. Razikael hadn’t cut any corners when she’d shielded them. 

“Shit,” said Crowley. 

Aziraphale swallowed an instinct to chime _well, Crowley, this counts as peril, _and reached for a weapon at his belt, but there was none. Crowley was similarly unarmed. There was a shift in the air as the demon tried first to freeze the guards in their tracks, and then to rust their weapons in their hands, or for the ground to open up and swallow them all up, but that was all it was - an ill wind against which the guards steeled themselves. 

“Remember, lads, take them alive,” barked the guard with the best armour, a leather tunic reinforced with small overlapping bronze plates. He’d be the captain, thought Aziraphale, as he rummaged through his bag again, pulling out a brush, which he changed into a bronze shortsword. It was close enough to his old flaming sword that it fit well in his hand, but he looked despairingly at the dozen guards closing in on them. They couldn’t take all of them on. He unfolded his wings to make an aerial escape. 

The guards faltered, but only for a moment. 

“You have your orders,” shouted the guard-captain. “Archers!” The guards at the back let their arrows loose. His wings were a large target - the arrows flew true, and he saw spots of red begin to bloom on white feathers. 

Crowley’s empty hands were clenched in anger, now. With a hiss, the demon’s shape lengthened and blurred until he was a massive black snake, with a red-scaled belly. He coiled a wide circle between Aziraphale and the guards. Then he lashed out, baring fangs the size of butcher’s knives. “Back off,” he hissed, “I am Apep, lord of chaos, I will tear the soul from your body and swallow it whole, so how ‘bout you fuck off back to whence you came -” 

The syllables were tangled in a long, livid hiss, but the demon seemed to have gotten the point across. The guards looked at each other, startled, and took a synchronized step back. Emboldened by the effect he was having, Crowley kept slithering and hissing forboding messages and snapping at the guards. 

“You morons,” growled the guard-captain, “our amulets protect us. We are the rays of the son of Aten. Those demons have no power over us now -” and he jabbed at Crowley’s tail with his sword, to make a point. 

Crowley hissed, this time in pain and whipped around to bite the guard-captain, but the damage was done. 

The guards began the chant. “Spit on Apep, kick the Apep, smite the Apep, burn the Apep!” they shouted. And then they fell upon Crowley with their swords spears, stabbing every part of him they could reach. The swordsmen hadn’t the reach to match Crowley’s agility, but the spearmen did. Aziraphale leapt outwards and tried to parry the spear blows, but Crowley’s length blocked him at every opportunity, obstructing the blows from the angel and the guards in equal measure. Most spear-thrusts skidded off his scales or struck empty air, but a few struck true. 

Crowley reared back and screamed in pain. Aziraphale hadn’t known that snakes could scream. He pressed a hand to a gash in Crowley’s tail, but he hadn’t the power nor sufficient understanding of serpentine physiology to close such a wound. Crowley noticed the angel trying to heal the injury, and hissed at him, eyes wild. 

Then he lost control of his serpentine form. His shape blurred and a man-shaped demon knelt on the ground, head bowed, tunic splattered with blood. Crowley shouldn’t have lost control - being a snake came to the demon more naturally than breathing -

Then Crowley raised his head and spoke again, and Aziraphale realized it was a deliberate choice. The demon could speak as a snake, though with a lot of hissing and elongated syllables. Here, in the fracas, Crowley wanted his next words to be absolutely clear. 

“Run, angel,” said the demon, from a mouth trickling blood from one corner. One of his legs lay at an odd angle below the knee, and he made no move to heal it. Two of the guards wrenched Crowley’s arms behind his back to bind them. Aziraphale felt frozen to the spot, sword still clenched uselessly in one hand, wings half-dragging on the ground. 

“What about him?” said another guard, jerking his head at Aziraphale. 

Aziraphale scrambled backwards. “Is that how you treat your goddess?” he said, voice trembling. He’d been mistaken for Ma’at before -

“No goddess of mine consorts with demon-snakes,” said the guard-captain, and he spat at Crowley’s feet. “If you’re Ma’at, I’ll eat my helmet.” Then he turned back to look the angel up and down. “Our orders were clear. Capture the priest. You can go free, if you give up the scroll.”

“That’s uncharacteristically merciful of the Pharaoh,” said Aziraphale. 

“Not merciful. Logical. His Majesty honours his deals,” said the guard-captain. “Even with demon scribes like you.” 

“Are you deaf? Run,” croaked Crowley.

One of the demon’s captors cuffed him on the side of the head for his trouble. Crowley’s head lolled semi-consciously from the blow, and he sagged forward, supported only by the guards on either side of him. 

Aziraphale rapidly considered the few options available to him. It was late afternoon. The fight was already lost. 

“The scroll is in my bag,” said Aziraphale. “Just give me a moment to find it.” 

“Drop the sword, too,” growled the guard-captain.

“I’d rather hold onto it, thank you,” said Aziraphale. “With ten of you and one of me, after all.” What was to stop them from bundling him off into a dungeon after they’d taken the scroll from him? 

“Fine. But if you point that sword anywhere but the ground, you’re gonna pay for it,” said the guard-captain. 

Aziraphale closed his fingers around the scroll. “I’m just pulling it out now,” he said. He inched the scroll out of his bag. “See?” The guards definitely couldn’t tell demonic script from demotic, for all their squinting and posturing. 

“Hand it to me,” snapped the guard-captain, approaching with his own sword at the ready. “Slowly. And without any stupid demon scribe tricks.” 

Crowley was beginning to stir again. He lifted his head, and their eyes met. The demon mouthed a single word. _Run_. 

Aziraphale tore his eyes away from Crowley, and held the scroll in front of him. When the guard-captain’s hand closed around the scroll, he lit the parchment on fire. The guard-captain stumbled backwards, howling from the burn on his hand. The other guards startled, and began to raise their weapons again. 

Aziraphale had only a moment to act. And in that moment, he raised his sword and threw it. It spun through the air, imbued with the last of the angel’s divine power to fly true and straight, and embedded itself into the demon’ chest. 

Surprise flickered through Crowley’s eyes, but before it could give way to betrayal, the demon toppled lifelessly forward onto the ground. 

The guard closest to Aziraphale had recovered from the shock at that point, and he ran a spear through Aziraphale’s chest. 

The guard-captain grabbed the angel by the shoulders, as his vision darkened at the edges. “You _idiot,_” he growled at the erstwhile spearman. “Get some bandages, we’re bringing at least one of them in alive_ -” _The squad rushed to try and staunch Aziraphale’s wound, but the angel knew that they’d have only two empty corporations to show for their work that afternoon. 

**∽⧖∼**

Aziraphale landed in Heaven’s atrium again. He didn’t bother heading for the elevator. Instead, he sat down right where he’d landed, cross-legged on the ground beside the spinning observation globe. If he looked closely, he might be able to see the humans scuttling across its surface. And If he could touch it, he might be able to incorporeally spy on its inhabitants, drifting from house to house and city to city. But he couldn’t, because the whole thing was walled off in glass. 

“Blimey,” said the janitor. He looked like he was going to say something about the way Aziraphale was scuffing the floor with his noncorporeal shoes or how he should get out of the way so he could mop. 

“I don’t want to hear a word from you today,” he said, glaring at the janitor. The janitor returned his glare with a pitying gaze. It wasn’t every day an angel landed in the lobby, discorporated, _sans_ relevant documentation or any apparent impulse to fill it out. An angel without paperwork was nothing. There wasn’t even a way to go and float, bodiless, back down to Earth. Not that it would do him any good. What would he even do? Watch the Records Hall burn to the ground? Watch Khapet bury Menet alone? Watch the guards bundle Crowley’s body up and dump him in the Pharaoh’s study? 

Oh, yes, because he’d done _so_ well with a body all those other Tuesday afternoons. 

So he sat and waited for the green light to overtake him again, and told himself that this had been the best possible outcome of the confrontation. He had ended the encounter on his own terms. He had sent Crowley to Hell, keeping him out of Razikael’s grasp so she couldn’t interrogate him about his knowledge of the time loop or about his whereabouts on a typical Tuesday afternoon. He had destroyed the scroll, so Razikael wouldn’t have a chance to develop her translation further. He had made the best choice from the few that had been available to him.

And he didn’t believe a single word that he told himself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that's the end of Act 2. Sorry. Act 3 will go up after a short delay, likely the week of the 22nd, because too much has changed in my draft. 
> 
> Gilgamesh translation brought to you by N. K. Sanders. Chapter title brought to you by [Dumbledore](https://youtu.be/Tx1XIm6q4r4?t=39). And that bit at the end brought to you by that scene in the Animorphs which totally destroyed younger me.


	16. Clever Angel

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aziraphale saddles Crowley with busywork and gets drunk.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And thus Act 3 begins. Merry Christmas! Big thanks to SilchasRuin and GraphiteGirl for taking time out of their busy holiday schedules to run with my silly self-imposed update schedule.

“That’s the last of it,” said Crowley. “Blasted demonic script gives me a headache. How many times have we gone through this?”

“I haven’t kept count,” said Aziraphale miserably. “Let’s go over the last paragraph again.” He knew the entire text by heart, now; the same way he knew the island, and its copse of trees, and the look of concentration on Crowley’s face as he sat cross-legged at the table and doodled absent-minded vines in the margins of the parchment. He’d asked the demon to retranslate random sections of the scroll each afternoon regardless, for the sole purpose of keeping him busy and out of Razikael’s grasp. 

A jug of pomegranate beer that had been transposed from Khapet’s stall in the market to the low table completed the scene. It was mostly empty, which wholly constituted the angel’s accomplishments that afternoon, as it had for the past week or so.

Crowley began reading. 

> _My last efforts have increased the reach of the ritual by a few minutes at best. I fear that I am approaching the ritual’s temporal asymptote. Simply put, I do not have enough power to go backward for more than a few hours at a time. I need help - I cannot turn to anyone else, and certainly not anyone in Research and Development. They would double-cross me in an instant if they knew I was trying to reverse my Fall. I transferred to Earth once it became apparent that my research would be best carried out far, far away from that department. _
> 
> _Mnemosyne brings visions with increasing frequency and unbearable clarity. I wrought the knife to bring memories to the surface, but it has tasted my blood oft enough that memories return even when I lay a finger on the handle. Sometimes I wish I’d never forged that accursed knife. Then I’d never have remembered that I was Ophiel before I was Lilith, and all that entailed, I wouldn’t be trying to develop this blasted ritual in the first place. _
> 
> _But if I told Razikael what I remembered - yes, the light of Heaven, but so much _ _more_ _ \- perhaps she would deign to help me. She is twelvefold more powerful, and I believe that she, of all people, might understand _ _why_ _ I was trying to reverse my Fall. It is unlikely that she could supply the power required to travel that far backwards, and she did promise to destroy me if ever we met again. However, I see no other alternative at this point. I have to try _ _something._

“Hope you got what you were looking for,” said Crowley. “The part that interests me is why this _Lilith_ would want to reverse her Fall. Last I heard, she’d been transferred from R&D to a field assignment. I’d no idea that it was because she was having hang-ups about the Fall.”

Aziraphale poured himself another measure of drink into a clay cup. “Really,” he said. 

“Well, yeah,” said Crowley. He shifted uncomfortably on the reed mat he was sitting on. “Nobody Falls by accident. You’ve got to really commit to a certain mindset first.” 

“You said you didn’t regret it,” recalled the angel.

“Did I?”

“Well, the exact wording was -” Aziraphale struggled to remember. “Like wondering if the pomegranates are plumper on the other side of the river.”

“Interesting metaphor,” said the demon. 

Aziraphale shrugged and drank from his cup. “It’s a simile, actually.”

“Right,” said Crowley. “Well. The point I was trying to make is that Mnemosyne must have shown Lilith something really interesting, if she was having second thoughts.”

“What do you mean by _really interesting?_” asked Aziraphale. 

“I mean, beyond the obvious,” said Crowley. At the angel’s blank stare, he elaborated. “Y’know. Beyond being uptight and shiny and -” he flapped his hand in explanation. 

Aziraphale didn’t say anything. He’d drunk too much to parse the demon’s hand-waving. 

Crowley sighed and said, “And basking in the Grace of the Almighty and the Light of Heaven, alright?” 

Comprehension dawned on the angel, followed by indignation. “The light of Heaven isn’t enough for you people?” bristled Aziraphale. 

“Well, you just can’t _do_ much with it, can you? Sing its praises, and faff about with harps if you’ve not much of a voice,” said Crowley. “Only so many one-sided glory-glory-hallelujahs a soul can take before going stark, raving mad.” 

“It’s not one-sided. And it’s not just harps. They’d rustled together a whole string section, last I checked.” 

“Well, good Gloria-in-excelsis-Deo for you,” said Crowley. “I’ve got other stuff on my plate nowadays.” 

“Suppose keeping up with the opposition is a full-time job,” conceded Aziraphale. 

“I’m not always on the clock, and not everything’s about you,” snapped Crowley. “I have _hobbies_ now. Can you say the same?” 

“I don’t need hobbies.” 

“The evidence suggests otherwise. Give it a go, won’t you? Travel abroad. Meet some new people. Earth’s good for that.” 

“_Earth’s good for that?_ You’d sing a different tune if you’d been stuck in Akhetaten for the last few months,” said Aziraphale bitterly. 

A fleeting expression of disquiet crossed the demon’s face. “Right, that’s enough for you,” said Crowley. He reached across the table, took the angel’s cup, and upended it into the grass beside the table. The pomegranate beer hit the ground with a small, fiery mushroom cloud. 

“You put that down,” said Aziraphale. He grasped clumsily in Crowley’s direction. 

“You’re going to say something you regret.” 

“I’ve already said things I regret. And done things I regret. What’s one more Tuesday regret?” said Aziraphale. He grabbed the pomegranate beer and made to drink straight from the jug. 

“For fuck’s sake,” muttered Crowley to himself, and then to Aziraphale, he said, “What is your _problem?_ You haven’t drunk this much since - since after Sodom and Gomorrah.” The demon leaned across the table and grabbed the jug, wrestling it out of the angel’s arms.

“You snake, give that back -” 

“- that’s not happening, it’s for your own good -” 

“- _for your own good_, that’s exactly what landed us into this mess,” erupted Aziraphale, and with a mighty yank, he repossessed the jug of beer so forcefully it flew backwards and tumbled down the grassy slope of the island, finally spilling its contents into the Nile. “Oh, look what you’ve done now... I can’t miracle up another one, Khapet’s already packed up so he can find Menet, who’s probably gone and died again...” 

Crowley looked dismayed. Of course he would. His recollection of the messenger’s fate had been blasé, even to his own ears. “Passed on,” Aziraphale self-corrected. No, too euphemistic. “Gone to meet his Maker,” he tried again, but it was somewhat unlikely that the Almighty went and visited every soul languishing in Purgatory, waiting for the coming of Christ. “Been murdered by the Pharaoh,” he said, finally, but the words hardly outlined his role in the terrible chain of causality that led to Menet’s untimely death every Tuesday afternoon. 

There was a rustle of linen beside him, and he saw that the demon had taken a seat beside him on the reed mat. The apprehension of Crowley’s aura felt like an itch on the angel’s skin. 

“I’ve got the gist of it,” said the demon quietly. 

Crowley’s consternation had settled into a look of concern, now, and Aziraphale decided that he hated it. If not for that _concern,_ Crowley would never have become involved in the time loop, and then Razikael wouldn’t be trying to secure his help for yet more scroll translations, and then he’d never have seen Crowley fall forward into the dirt, Aziraphale’s sword embedded in his chest. 

“No. You haven’t,” said Aziraphale. “I’m going to sober up.” 

He uncrossed his legs and wobbily stood up, taking Crowley’s abandoned reed mat with him. Then, he walked to the riverbank of the little island and sat down, feet in the cool water, before forcing the alcohol from his bloodstream into the river. A little pool of drink formed in the river shallows at his ankles, before the current buffeted it away in a smear of redness. 

He picked up a stone, and tossed it into the river with a bit of spin. It skipped seven times. 

“Not bad,” said Crowley, who had sidled up to take a seat beside the angel on the bank, dangling bare feet into the river. Aziraphale wondered where the demon’s shoes had gone, but Crowley picked up a stone of his own. A flick of the demon’s wrist, and nine skips followed. “Not my best effort,” he said mournfully. 

“It’s not your fault,” said Aziraphale. “It’s the geology. Makes them too round.” 

“Yeah,” said Crowley. “They are.” He exhaled a long breath, and then said, “You said we’d been working on the scroll for ages. I thought finishing the translation would make you happy.”

“I still haven’t got a good way to stop Razikael,” said Aziraphale. 

“But we know who developed the ritual, and how she got her hands on it,” said Crowley. “Lilith wasn’t powerful enough, and needed a source of more power. But if Razikael herself only wielded enough power to repeat an afternoon, I think that it might be mathematically impossible to go back any further without the help of some enormously powerful accomplices.”

“Powerful accomplices,” echoed Aziraphale. “Who have no reason to collaborate with Razikael, nor any reason to be willing to share foreknowledge.” 

“Yes, meaning that the ritual is functionally useless in Razikael’s hands.” The demon’s face was open and earnest. 

“She doesn’t care that it’s useless,” said Aziraphale. He spread his hands in front of him. “She’ll only end the loops if I deliver the scroll to her. And you, I guess, to verify the translation.” 

“How’d you know that?” 

“We had a talk, a while back,” he said cagily. 

“And you don’t believe her, do you?” said Crowley. 

“I do, actually,” said Aziraphale. “If she gets you and the scroll, she’s only got a few hours at most before the afternoon restarts. It’s not a very productive way of working, unless she ends the loop.” 

“But... you’re not actually thinking of agreeing to her demands,” said Crowley. 

“Of course not,” snapped Aziraphale. “What’s to stop her from starting another loop, where only you and her are in on it? You’d start and end each day in a prison cell, unable to leave until you’ve helped her go back in time far enough to reverse the Fall or whatever _injustice_ she’s got her eye on…” He trailed off.

“I wouldn’t help her,” said Crowley. He’d stopped swinging his legs in the river.

“You might, after a thousand days in the Palace dungeon,” said Aziraphale. “You know those souls in Purgatory, with nothing but their own thoughts? I’m sure they’d sell their own grandmothers to get out.” 

“Well, I don’t have a grandmother, and I’d never help the Pharaoh anyways.”

“The point’s moot anyways, because I’m not taking her offer,” said Aziraphale. 

“Right, so you’ll sit on this island and hide from the Pharaoh instead,” said Crowley. He narrowed his eyes. “How many times have we been back here?” he demanded. 

“It took a few dozen afternoons to finish the translation -” 

“Don’t play dumb, angel. It’s not a good look on you,” said Crowley. “When I finished the translation, I thought you might be happy. Or at least surprised. But you didn’t seem surprised at all, and you’ve already gone to the Pharaoh to try and negotiate... and from the way you speak about her, you wouldn’t have gone until you had no other choice. So, how many times have we been back here?”

Aziraphale said nothing. He plucked a stone out of the mud at his feet, and skipped it on the water. It was a very good throw, with a decent chance at exceeding his own personal best. 

But before its very first skip, the river parted under the rock’s trajectory, and the rock embedded itself into the muddy riverbed. Then, the waters rushed back in, kicking up silt and erasing the stone from view entirely. 

Aziraphale gaped, and then looked at Crowley. 

The demon’s eyes glittered. “How many times?” he repeated. 

“Maybe another five after - after we finished the translation, and after the guards nearly captured you,” admitted the angel.

“And you still haven’t thought of a way to double-cross the Pharaoh?” said Crowley. “I can think of a half-dozen ways right now.” 

“I know,” said Aziraphale. “But I think they’d all end in discorporation, or getting shut up in the Palace dungeon.” 

Crowley ignored his question. “Remind me what she needs to conduct the ritual,” he said, with a stubborn set to his jaw.

“The knife Mnemosyne. A fire. And a snake to sacrifice,” said Aziraphale. He hesitated after the last item. Should he tell Crowley? Eventually, he decided that there was no harm in it, since Crowley wouldn’t retain any memory of the afternoon. “Which is another reason I can’t negotiate with her. You’re the _serpent of Eden_. What if Razikael realizes that her power is being bottlenecked by the ritual?” he continued. “If her ritual was to succeed – which is impossible, by the way – then she’d need to sacrifice _you.”_

The demon looked nonplussed by that particular requirement of the ritual. “Well, I guess there’s only one thing to do,” said Crowley. “We negotiate with her to end the loop, in exchange for me, and the scroll. Except that at the end of it -” he wiggled his fingers vaguely in the air - “she gets neither.” 

“And how does _that_ -” Aziraphale wiggled his fingers in the air between them as well “- double-cross succeed? The Pharaoh’s guards won’t let us walk away without upholding our end of the bargain.” 

“You could call for backup,” suggested the demon. 

“Nobody Upstairs believes a word about the time loop, and every time I try the direct line, it goes straight to ansaphone.” 

“Well, we could take down the guards together,” said Crowley optimistically.

“Her guards are all shielded from our influence,” said Aziraphale. “And it’d be two against at least two dozen.” He still wasn’t sure how many guards Razikael had at her disposal, but the single squad that had ambushed them outside the temple sanctuary had thrashed them.

“But we can fly! And I can, y’know, snake out.” 

“Still too risky,” said Aziraphale. 

“Why not?” Crowley demanded. “Getting cold feet already? Worst case scenario, we get discorporated.”

“There’s plenty of things worse than discorporation!” shouted Aziraphale. “Like getting captured by the Pharaoh, trapped in a second time loop, and forced to translate until the end of time!” 

“Well, it goes without saying that those aren’t preferred outcomes,” said Crowley, with unsettling composure. 

“Not to mention that Razikael would be expecting a trap. She can’t be expecting me to just agree to her terms and let her walk free. I’m an _angel_. I’m not even supposed to negotiate with the enemy -”

Crowley coughed, but Aziraphale continued speaking. “- let alone hold up my end of a bargain. So I’ve tried to double-cross her every time we’ve parleyed.”

“And did any of them work?” said the demon, with sudden interest.

“No!” shouted Aziraphale. Did Crowley not _realize_ what was at stake? 

Crowley stood up and began pacing through the shallows of the river, kicking up muddy spirals as he went. “So you have to negotiate, but you can’t negotiate. You need to deal with the guards, but you can’t. You need to call for backup, but you can’t. You need to betray her, but you can’t do that either. What _can_ you do?” he demanded. “I’m only playing with one cup of dice. If you know so much about the Pharaoh and the guards, you’ve _got_ to have some ideas of your own.” 

So Aziraphale shared them. 

Crowley sat back down. “That’s not actually the worst plan ever,” he said. “It’s quite good, really.” 

“It’s terrible,” said Aziraphale. 

“No, no, I like it. Particularly the bit with the Memphis City Shuffle.” 

“What?” 

“Uh. I’m working on the name.” said Crowley. “Second oldest trick in the book. Long story short, when they look on one side of the river, you’re on the other. That’s the bit where Razikael thinks we’re going to attack her, but in actuality -” he clenched his fist and made a noise like a cat being strangled. “You’ve got the actual number one oldest trick in the book, too. And that bit of reverse psychology where you make Razikael choose which part of the bargain is fulfilled first -” Crowley whistled admiringly. “- Didn’t know you had that in you, but then again, you’ve always been a clever angel.”

“Oh, that part,” said Aziraphale, feeling both pleased and anxious that Crowley approved. 

“If I didn’t know better, I’d say that you’d been hanging around me for too long,” said the demon. Aziraphale’s discomfort must have been evident, though, because Crowley quickly amended in a reassuring tone, “Luckily, I _do_ know better. Can’t take credit for any of it. Because. Wow. That bit at the end. You don’t deal in half-measures, hm?” 

“No,” said Aziraphale. 

“Great. So. Why were you getting drunk on a Tuesday afternoon instead of pulling _that_ off?” 

“Because it’ll would never work. I’m going to get incinerated by Hellfire, and you’ll get press-ganged into academic slavery inside a time loop. You’ll never see sunshine again. It’ll be translate, translate, translate, until the end of time. The plan is -” 

“Just crazy enough to work,” suggested the demon.

“No!” said Aziraphale, shocked by Crowley’s cavalier attitude. “The plan is the worst thing I’ve ever thought of. It’s worse than going stir-crazy on the Ark. It’s worse than getting eaten by crocodiles. It’s worse than the time I called Sandalphon in for backup.” 

“Oh, the pillars of salt guy,” said Crowley. “Nasty bit of business, that.” 

“Exactly,” said Aziraphale. He took a deep breath. “Now that we have a shared frame of reference, this plan is worse than Sandalphon’s propensity for human-to-mineral transformations. There _must _be a better way, because even if it works -” He fell silent, unable to voice his qualms. 

“Is the bit with the spear? I know you favour the sword -” 

“No, I’ll be fine. We were all trained in polearms, it’s just a matter of -” The word for humans would be _muscle memory_, but he’d gone through a few corporations in the last few thousand years. “- it’s just a matter of remembering,” he concluded. 

“Are you sure?” 

“A squad of frightened guards managed,” said Aziraphale, “and so can I.” 

The demon looked offended, but didn’t press the issue. “You’re not squeamish, are you?” said Crowley. “I mean, it’s no picnic, but it’s also nothing you haven’t done before. Plus, it’s sort of a given that you’ll have to, er, remove certain variables from the equation to avert collateral damage, if you’re going to bring out the -” he dropped his voice, then “- the Holy Water.” 

“Well, yes, but I’ve never done it in cold blood like that, or -” he trailed off helplessly. How could Crowley be so _calm_ about the whole thing?

“Then what’s your problem? Is it the bit where you don’t actually tell the tomorrow’s version of me what you’re going to do?” 

“That part, too,” said Aziraphale. “But that part’s necessary. Razikael says you project through your shields too much.” 

“And what do you think?” 

Aziraphale turned to Crowley, and allowed himself to look at the demon. It felt like intruding on a private moment. Not because the demon was currently thinking any untoward thoughts - quite the contrary. Crowley’s aura was filled with a giddy hopefulness and excitement that wouldn’t have been out of place on a tavern patio in the afternoon, spotted only with inklings of dread. “I think that Razikael was right,” said Aziraphale. 

Crowley adjusted his shields, and it felt like a cloud had passed in front of the sun. “Better?” he said. 

“Yes,” said Aziraphale, but not meaning it at all. 

“So, why couldn’t you just tell me tomorrow afternoon?” 

“I’m concerned that, er,” said Aziraphale, struggling to articulate the reasons he couldn’t disclose the full plan to Crowley in the following loop. “Razikael needs to believe that you and I are going to attack her after she ends the loop. And to believe that, I need _you_ to believe it as well. How would you feel if I told you we were going to take her down together?” 

Crowley was silent for a moment. “A bit nervous. But also a bit chuffed,” he admitted.

“Exactly. If I tell you what I’m actually going to do - well, you’d be less than _a bit chuffed_. Your reactions need to be as natural as possible.” 

“Alright, what if I shielded myself?” 

“Razikael is expecting you to project _something_. If you project _nothing_, she’ll know I warned you, and that something else is afoot. It’s an obvious trap.” 

“And you?” said Crowley. “Won’t you project anything?” 

“My shields are excellent,” said Aziraphale. 

Crowley closed his eyes a moment to concentrate. “They’re pretty good,” he conceded. 

“I’d hope they were better than _pretty good_,” said Aziraphale. 

“They’re excellent,” said Crowley grudgingly. “Can’t feel a thing through them.” 

“Thank you,” said Aziraphale wretchedly. “But they won’t do me any good, unless the second-last step of the plan succeeds in dispelling the guards.”

“That’s the part that that Razikael isn’t expecting, I take it,” said Crowley. 

“Precisely. She’s expecting me to betray her after she holds up her end of the bargain. All our previous encounters have ended with my launching a failed attack against her person, and getting discorporated. She’ll be prepared for that. The guards will be prepared for that too. But they _won’t_ be prepared for what actually happens.” 

“Right.” 

“And it’s very important that part is convincing,” said Aziraphale. “The guards are _professionals_, they’d know if either of us was holding back, and I’m afraid that - that if you knew the whole story, you _would_ hold back, and it wouldn’t look real enough -” 

Crowley looked troubled. “You might be right about that,” he said. “Then again, what makes you think you’ll be able to handle your part of the plan? You’ve got the flashy part. And flashy’s more my thing than yours.” 

“I’ve had recent practice,” said Aziraphale tightly. His eyes drifted over the demon’s shoulder, to a spot on the ground between the shadows of the pomegranate trees. 

“Alright, then, if you’re not squeamish, and if you’re not worried you can’t manage your share of the pie, what’s the problem?” said Crowley 

“I just - there’s got to be a better way.”

“Maybe,” conceded the demon. “But how long did it take you to think this plan up?” 

“Two afternoons after the last time I met with the Pharaoh,” admitted Aziraphale

“And I’m sure you’ve been picking my brain for, oh, a week after that. They’ve got a saying in Hell - insanity is doing the same thing over and over again, but expecting a different result,” said Crowley sagely, but with a bit of a bitter smile on his lips. Aziraphale didn’t know where the bitterness came from. But he did know that someone like Crowley wasn’t meant to be bitter. Grumpy, sometimes. Sarcastic, certainly. An irreverent thorn in his foot - always. But not bitter. 

“You really want me to do it?” said Aziraphale, at last. 

“In the absence of a single, better plan? Yes.”

“If our positions were reversed, wouldn’t you want a different plan too?” 

“Oh, yeah.” said Crowley. “I’d love to tell you all about how my plan is better in every way that matters, but I haven’t got one. So. Yours wins by acclamation. Congratulations, angel.” 

“How marvellous.” 

“It’s really quite a plan, though. I might have provided the inspiration, but I don’t think I’d have the guts to carry it out.” 

“That’s excellent,” said Aziraphale. “I’ve conceived of a plan so terrible an actual _demon_ wouldn’t execute it.” He dropped his head onto his knees. 

“No, no,” said Crowley hurriedly. “I meant it in a good way. It’s up there with the Great Plan, and the Ineffable Plan -” 

“Don’t blaspheme,” Aziraphale responded automatically. 

“- and, in the end, it’s loads better than the alternative.”

“And what does the alternative mean?” said Aziraphale. 

“Not sure,” said Crowley. “I’ve never been in your tatty sandals, or in a possessed Pharaoh’s time loop before. What does it mean for you?” 

“I wouldn’t know the difference, if I hand you over. Razikael wouldn’t trap me in the loop again. I might live a million Wednesdays, but I’d only feel one of them.”

“That doesn’t sound so bad,” said Crowley. 

“But I’d _know_ that she’d have you locked up in a prison somewhere for a little pocket of eternity. Would you even come out of it as _you_ again?” moaned Aziraphale, sitting back upright. Crowley looked taken aback, and in his silence, Aziraphale hurried onward. “And I apologize for the last time I discorporated you. I overreacted. Shouldn’t have smited you.” 

“Apology accepted, angel, but where did that come from?” 

Aziraphale shrugged. “I’d never apologized for it before.”

“Then I’m sorry about the crocodile thing,” said the demon. “It looked really painful.” 

Aziraphale grasped Crowley’s hand then. “I know,” he said fiercely. “The bank was higher than you realized, and you didn’t know the crocodiles were there. It wasn’t your fault.” 

Crowley furrowed his brow. “Anything else I should know I said?” he said. 

“Er,” said Aziraphale, and he blushed, and let go of the demon’s hand. 

“You know what, I don’t want to know,” said Crowley. “How many loops has it been, total?” 

“I wasn’t keeping count, exactly. But probably at least three months. Possibly more,” said Aziraphale. 

“There’s no way it should have taken you that long,” said Crowley. “Even with the translating and such. I’m not _that_ slow.” 

“There was a bit at the beginning, where I was trying to get into the palace to negotiate with the Pharaoh. And then a bit in the middle where I, er, began to go a bit stir-crazy.” 

“Stir-crazy? This I’ve got to hear.” 

“Spent a few afternoons playing dice in the tavern. Did some light reading. Left some nasty voice messages for Upstairs,” recounted Aziraphale. 

“I knew you were just procrastinating,” said Crowley. 

“I wasn’t procrastinating.” 

“Today, you sat on a little tropical island, and you drank a whole jug of something fruity. It’s nearly sunset. Did you do _anything_ useful this afternoon?” 

“Not really,” said Aziraphale. 

“Then my point stands,” said Crowley. He tsked at the angel. “Procrastinating, What has the world come to?”

“Tuesdays,” supplied Aziraphale. “Many, many Tuesdays.” 

The sun was quite low in the sky, now. Tomorrow might be the last time he saw it like that in a while, in that display of colours, with those clouds.

Tomorrow might be the last time he saw Crowley for a while. The realization sent an unexpected pang through this chest, and he swallowed.

“Crowley - my dear -” he began.

The demon started, at that. “You talking to me, angel?” 

“Remember when you asked whether there was anything else you ought to know you said?” 

“Oh, yeah,” said Crowley. 

“There is something that you ought to hear,” said Aziraphale. He swallowed. “You helped me with translating the scroll, even though I didn’t threaten you -” 

“Oh, tell the whole world, won’t you,” said Crowley irritably.

“- and even though I’ve been horrid to you for the last thousand years -”

“Can’t argue with that part,” said Crowley, but his expression had softened somewhat. 

“- so -” Aziraphale choked up, but soldiered on. “Thank you,” he finished. 

“Well, you’re welcome,” said Crowley. There was a trace of pink on his cheeks. 

“And I’m also sorry about what I’m going to do the next afternoon,” said Aziraphale. He took a deep breath. “Maybe you’ll accept the plan now, but tomorrow... I’m afraid you’d never forgive me. That’s why I didn’t want to try it.” 

“Forgive you?” said Crowley. He laughed. “I think I’d always forgive you.”

“You say that now,” said the angel glumly. 

It was Crowley who took Aziraphale’s hand, then. “Have some faith,” he said. 

It was borderline blasphemous for the demon to say that. The corners of Aziraphale’s mouth twitched regardless. 

“I mean it, angel. I don’t think I could _not_ forgive you,” said Crowley. 

“Do you really?” 

“I do,” said Crowley. “So, if that’s what’s stopping you from ending the loop... don’t let it hold you back, alright?” 

“I can’t even call for backup this time,” muttered Aziraphale.

“Bugger backup,” said Crowley. “You’ve made it this far without Upstairs. You don’t need them tomorrow. I know you can face down one third-rate Pharaoh by yourself.” 

“You’re sure about that?” said Aziraphale, still unconvinced. 

“I’m sure,” said Crowley. 

Only a small sliver of sun peeked out over the horizon. Its waning marked the end of the afternoon, as it had a hundred times before. Aziraphale closed his eyes as he exhaled, so that his world was reduced to the breeze through the pomegranate trees, and the lap of waves against his ankles, and the warm grasp of the demon’s hand. 

Before he could draw breath, a green light flashed through his closed eyelids, and his world fell away again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry if this chapter is particularly opaque, but you probably already know what The Plan is anyways. Next chapter will be up in a week or so.


	17. The Messenger

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aziraphale sends a message of his own.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Also, last chapter I saw a few commenters who hoped that Crowley would recover his memory after the ritual was broken. I want to take this moment to say that _Once More with Pharaohs_ is not that kind of story. Yes, it has a happy ending, but nobody gets out of the time loop _that_ easily.

“I don’t see what the problem is,” said Crowley. “The economy is booming. The Kingdom’s at peace.”

“Suppose you’re right,” said Aziraphale. “Things could be far worse. I mean, the Pharaoh could be warring with the Hittites. Or purging his political enemies. What’s a bit of sun monolatry in comparison?” He tried to laugh, but it came out as a sad, strangled little noise, halfway between a cough and a cry.

“Exactly!” said Crowley, happy that the angel had come around so quickly. He bent down to pick up a stone from the riverbank, and then he deftly skipped it across the surface of the Nile.

_Twelve_, thought Aziraphale.

“Oho, a record!” crowed the demon triumphantly. Then, he picked up another stone, and offered it to Aziraphale. “You give it a go, now.”

Aziraphale took the stone with numb fingers, and tried to skip it on the water like Crowley had. The stone made two sad little hops and dropped right to the bottom, as rocks were wont to do.

“Poor show,” said Crowley mournfully. “At least you’ve got nowhere to go but up.” He picked up another rock, this one a little piece of slate, two fingers wide. “I’ve got nowhere to go but down,” he continued. “Do you know how long it took to get from eleven to twelve skips?”

“No,” lied Aziraphale. “How long?”

“Three months!” said Crowley. “The geology here is terrible for making good skipping stones.” He flung out the stone he’d chosen.

Aziraphale could tell it wasn’t a very good throw. But despite himself, he gave the stone a little nudge, to add a bit more spin -

“Thirteen! What are the chances?” said Crowley delightedly. He thrust his fists into the air in triumph.

“It was only a matter of time,” said Aziraphale.

“We’ll have to celebrate this occasion,” said the demon. He clapped a hand on the angel’s shoulder. “Interested in a drink?”

On any other day, he would acquiesce. They could spend the afternoon in the tavern, or perhaps at the market, carousing from stall to stall. He could introduce Khapet’s pomegranate beer to Crowley’s palate, and then they’d squabble about which skewer or fried bread or cheese best complemented the acidity of the beer. They could retire to Aziraphale’s living room, or perhaps the roof, with a jug of drink. They could compare notes on their supervisors at Head Office, or debate whether or not black was a real colour, and do nothing more important than allow the remaining hours of the day pass them by in a pleasant, companionable haze. 

“I’m afraid I can’t,” he said instead, and the demon’s face fell just a fraction. 

“Duty calls, eh?” said Crowley. 

Aziraphale could feel the demon unconsciously drawing in his aura around him, like a protective cocoon. “Perhaps later,” he said. “What are your plans this afternoon?” 

“A budget meeting at the temple, and a temptation to cross off the to-do list this afternoon. Then maybe I’ll go frighten housewives doing their laundry.” He flicked his tongue playfully at Aziraphale. 

“Very well,” said Aziraphale. “Shall we meet in front of the temple sanctuary, an hour before sundown?” 

“The temple sanctuary?” said Crowley. “I could save us a seat at the tavern instead.” 

“My business at the temple might run late,” said Aziraphale. He needed a wide, open space, where he couldn’t be ambushed, but not so far from the city as to raise any suspicion from either Crowley or Razikael. 

The demon pretended to consider the invitation, but his decision was a foregone conclusion. “Alright, angel.”

“I’ll see you soon, then,” he forced out, but it felt like the betrayal it was. 

Crowley nodded decisively, and then turned his back on Aziraphale. The angel moved his hands in the way that he had been taught several afternoons ago, culminating in an unpracticed flick of the wrist. A short-term tracking ward settled lightly over the demon as he sauntered towards the Great Temple of Aten.

Aziraphale lingered on the riverbank after Crowley had left, watching the ibises harass the crocodiles. It wasn’t too late to chase after the demon, and claim that he’d changed his mind, and that yes, a drink was a lovely idea right about now, and he knew a charming little island upon which they could have the drink, and by the way, there’s a scroll that he could use a hand translating - 

The temper of the largest crocodile finally broke, and it snapped an ibis’s neck. The ibis’s blood stained the water red. Black feathers littered the river’s edge.

It was all too much for Aziraphale. He stood up dizzily, and trudged towards the harbour. 

**∽⧖∼**

Only a single squad of guards were patrolling the harbour that afternoon. It was a far cry from the multiple squads that Razikael had initially sent to intercept the scroll, many afternoons ago, but the men milled about in twos and threes, glowering at passerby and harassing dockhands as if their lives depended on it regardless. 

Aziraphale could probably handle so few guards, but there were events to be set in motion before he rendezvoused with Crowley, and he would not risk alerting the guards on anything other than his own terms. 

Instead, the angel took flight. A pillar of warm air buoyed his wings upwards. When he’d achieved sufficient altitude, he disengaged himself from the column of rising air and glided to the next. He spotted the barge after a bare minimum of wingbeats, making a neat two-footed landing on the deck next to the chest. 

He didn’t wait for the captain or the crew to acknowledge his presence, but opened the chest and pulled the scroll from the bottom. He knew it by touch now, how the parchment felt against his fingers, so unlike papyrus. Into the bag it went, as it always did. 

“M’lady,” the captain said, bowing low. 

“I’m not your lady,” said Aziraphale automatically. 

This would be the part where Crowley usually elbowed him or cleared his throat or kicked his shin, and then made some pointed comments about his professional obligations. And Aziraphale always did nothing, if only so that Crowley would find the silence too awkward and take it upon himself to direct the captain back to Thebes. The angel had enjoyed the demon’s discomfort at doing a good deed on many occasions. 

But Crowley wasn’t here today. 

“Would you like to do me a service?” said Aziraphale. 

“Anything, my lady,” said the captain, and he knelt to the ground. 

“Go back upstream. Spend the night in Badari.” said Aziraphale. “And don’t come back to Akhetaten until tomorrow.” 

“Why? Have we displeased you, my lady?” asked the captain. Two gnarled hands rose up to grip his golden crocodile amulet tightly. 

“No,” Aziraphale assured him. “There’s a lot of discord at the harbour right now. Rather you avoid it if you can.” 

“But - we’ve got a shipment for the Records Hall,” stammered the captain. 

“They’ve gone this long without last year’s harvest records. They can go a few days more without them,” said the angel. The captain still looked skeptical and the angel was on a tight schedule. “It won’t hurt to come back tomorrow,” Aziraphale insisted, now with a touch of divinity into his voice. 

The captain looked at the angel for a moment longer. “If you’re sure, my lady.” 

“I’m sure,” said Aziraphale firmly. 

“Hard to starboard!” shouted the captain. 

Aziraphale watched the sailors open up the sails and wheel the barge around. When he was satisfied that the captain had redirected the barge southbound, he bent his knees and pushed himself up off the deck of the ship. 

Akhetaten awaited. 

**∽⧗∼** ****

Menet and Khapet were finishing up their lunch when Aziraphale arrived at the tavern. He lingered at a distance, half-hidden between a trellis of young grapevines, and placed another short-term tracking ward on Menet as the brothers shared a rough, back-thumping hug. Then, the brothers parted. Khapet headed north, for the market, and Menet headed south, for the harbour. 

Aziraphale had not tailed Menet since the afternoons where he’d tried in vain to prevent the messenger from meeting his demise at the pointy end of the guards’ spears. Menet would first borrow a hand-cart from a fellow messenger before reporting in at the harbour. It should have been easy to follow him. 

But then, Menet suddenly ducked into a side alley. Aziraphale followed the messenger, only to face another junction. He hadn’t any idea which way Menet had turned, and the south suburb was a veritable warren of streets that hadn’t the decency to even make an effort at emulating a grid. 

Aziraphale picked a direction that led roughly south towards the harbour. The street abruptly curved left, and Aziraphale found a dead end. He retraced his step, and cursed Crowley’s tracking ward. What good was it when it didn’t tell the caster where the subject of the ward was? 

As soon as he had that thought, pain erupted in his temples. His eyes watered at the intensity, and he cursed Crowley again. Couldn’t the demon have devised a tracking ward somewhat _less_ painful? But somewhere in the sharpness of the pain, he saw the messenger’s empty cart, lying overturned by the harbour entrance. Steps away from the cart, two guards were alternatingly shoving and striking Menet. 

_One particularly hard punch to the shoulder flung the messenger to the ground, sprawled on his side in the dirt. A guard squatted down, so he was face to face with Menet. “What were you doing here, skulking around?” he shouted. His cloak marked him as the squad commander. _

He blinked away the tears that welled up in his eyes, and ran. The harbour was a fair distance away. He hoped he wouldn’t be too late.

Aziraphale turned the corner onto a side street. It would take him right to the harbour. Another vision flew into his face - 

_“Was going to pick up a delivery from the harbour,” coughed Menet. Blood spattered his bare chest. “Scrolls for the Records Hall.” _

_“Any other shipments on that barge?” asked the commander. “Anything for the Pharaoh?” _

_“I don’t know!” cried the messenger. “I was supposed to come help unload the barge, that’s all.” _

_Unsatisfied, the commander kicked the messenger in the ribs. _

Aziraphale was only blocks away, now, wiping sweat from his brow with the back of his hand as he ran full-tilt towards the harbour - 

_The commander stood up. “He doesn’t know shit,” he said to another guard. “Gut the scum, and we’ll be off.” _

_The guard hesitated. “You sure? Pharaoh only said to send a message. We could just knock some of his teeth out,” he said. _

_“It was an order, not a suggestion,” said the commander. _

_The guard raised his spear, blade-end pointed at Menet’s chest. _

Aziraphale turned one more corner, and came face to face with the two guards. They looked up at the sound of his footsteps. 

The angel leapt and tackled the guard, whose spear was still raised above Menet’s chest. The guard flailed as they fell. He hit the ground with Aziraphale’s weight behind the impact to boot. The guard struggled to stand up, the wind knocked out of him. The angel scraped up a handful of sand from the ground and threw it in his face. Razikael shielded them from divine intervention, but there was no reason that he could not even the odds another way. The guard moaned and tried to wipe the dust out of his eyes, letting go of his spear.

Aziraphale yanked the spear from the guard’s hand and blunted the tip, so that he wouldn’t have to kill anyone so early in the afternoon. A thousand years ago, the weaponmaster had drilled them with polearms and bladed weapons alike. Aziraphale had strongly preferred the latter, but it would be the training with the former that would get him through the afternoon. He could really use the last-minute practice. 

The guard had nearly managed to sit up at this point. Aziraphale sent him back to the ground with a strike to the head. He collapsed like a sack of grain, dead to the world. 

“What the fuck,” said the commander. He readied his own spear and sprang at Aziraphale. 

The angel dodged the leap. He turned to strike at the commander’s midsection with the heel of his staff, and pivoted to follow up with a blow from the tip. 

The commander staggered, but recovered and struck again with the spear. It opened up a long, ragged wound on the angel’s leg. 

Aziraphale gasped in pain, and dropped to one knee. He forced himself to focus on the weaponmaster’s first two lessons. _Don’t drop your weapon. Don’t turn your back on the enemy. _

The commander was charging in for another blow. 

Aziraphale ducked to the side, and slipped the heel of his staff between the commander’s two-handed grip. The commander didn’t let go of his spear. His momentum carried him forwards and off-balance. The angel unhooked his staff from his opponent’s spear, and swept it as his legs as the man rushed past him. 

The commander tripped over the staff and went sprawling. Aziraphale slammed the butt of the staff into the man’s kidneys. The commander shrieked and curled into a fetal position.

_He’d live_, thought the angel. Aziraphale bent down and pulled the Aten-disc amulet over the commander’s neck. Then, he froze him just to make sure he stayed down while he attended to Menet. 

The messenger was in poor shape. Broken ribs, bruises, and maybe a cracked skull. Aziraphale healed them all with a touch of his hand. “Wake up, Menet,” he said.

Menet opened his eyes and looked at Aziraphale. His face was clouded with confusion. “Who’re you?” 

“Just a scribe,” said Aziraphale. “Are you alright?” 

“Yeah, I think so,” said Menet. “What happened?” The messenger’s eyes widened when he saw the bodies of the guards on the ground - one unconscious, and the other one alive but still as death. 

“Nothing you need to worry about,” said Aziraphale. He righted Menet’s overturned cart. Then, with a touch of divinity, he said, “Get your brother and go home. Don’t leave your house until I come and find you.” 

“Yep,” said Menet. 

Aziraphale then turned his attention to the commander. He unfroze him, and the man resumed rolling around on the ground. “I yield,” he croaked. 

“Well, that’s good,” said Aziraphale awkwardly. He patted the guard down, and unhooked a rope from his belt. 

“I was just following orders,” the commander protested. “We were told to intercept the messenger, search him for the scroll, and then use him to _send a message_.” The commander coughed. “We thought he was a thief, or that he was some kind of intermediary -” 

“Well, he wasn’t. He can’t even read.” 

“Please, just let me go, I won’t say anything -” 

“I’ll let you go,” said Aziraphale. “If you do one thing for me.”

“What’s that?” said the guard. 

“Tell your Pharaoh that I’m ready to negotiate,” said Aziraphale. He wanted the guard to refuse. Then he’d have to take an afternoon off to regroup and restrategize. 

“I don’t understand,” said the guard. 

“The Pharaoh will,” said Aziraphale. “Tell him to come to the Temple of Aten a half-hour before sundown, but no sooner, otherwise I’ll burn the scroll and the deal will be off. And tell him that the deal’s off if any of you lay a hand on any messengers, priests, or bakers in the meantime, either. Did you get that?” 

“Temple. Sundown. Don’t show up early. Not beating up any priests or messengers.” 

“Or bakers,” said Aziraphale.

“Or bakers,” agreed the guard, and then he winced. “I can’t even walk.” 

“Terribly sorry about that,” said Aziraphale. “But at least you can crawl. The Palace isn’t so far away.” He added a dab of power just to ensure he wouldn’t die from internal bleeding en route. “Best get moving if you’re going to make it to the Palace in time,” he added, not mentioning that he could hear another squad of guards on the way to investigate the harbour dust-up. 

He caught up with Menet just as the messenger arrived at his brother’s market stall. Aziraphale observed the two brothers’ reunion from a nearby rooftop. 

“What’re you doing here?” said Khapet. The baker stood up from behind his table of baked goods. “You’re supposed to be at work -” 

“Yeah,” said Menet. He scratched his head. “Didn’t quite make it, though. Two of the Pharaoh’s men roughed me up a bit before I could get to the harbour.” 

“The Pharaoh’s men did _what?_” said Khapet. He pushed one of his bakery apprentices out of the way to clamber around the table of his market stall, and grasp his brother by the elbows. 

“I’m fine,” said the messenger, swatting the baker’s hands away from him. 

“The fuck you are,” said Khapet, and he touched Menet’s hair. “There’s blood in your hair. And on your shirt. I’m gonna go and give the guards a piece of my mind -” 

“There were like, three of them, you can’t take them on -” 

“Just watch me. This isn’t the first time the guards have gone too far, there’ve got to be others willing to give the Pharaoh a piece of their mind about that Aten crap too -” 

“- besides, I think one of the scribes got them first.” 

That brought Khapet pause. “Really,” he said. 

“Oh, yeah,” said Menet. “When I came to, all the guards who had attacked me were dead. All five of them.” 

“A scribe, though,” said Khapet. 

“Well, he said he was a scribe. But he was dressed like a farmer, or something.” 

“Poncy-looking sort, though?” said Khapet. 

Menet considered it. “Yeah, I’d say so. You know him?” 

“Know him? The pansy bastard cheated me at dice last week. There’s no way he could have beaten up five guards by himself.” 

“I swear by Ma’at’s knickers he took down all seven of ‘em -” 

“They must have hit you on the head real hard,” said Khapet. “We’re going home.” 

The divine compulsion took hold of the messenger at the mention of _home_. “Alrighty,” said Menet obediently. 

The two brothers left the marketplace arm-in-arm, and Aziraphale placed a small ward on Khapet as well, to alert him if Razikael didn’t hold up her end of the bargain. 

**∽⧖∼**

Aziraphale thought about going home to have a drink and settle his nerves, but the last time he’d been home, his roof had been on fire. Chances were that the Pharaoh had already dispatched the guards to carry out more acts of arson. 

He decided to go to the Records Hall. The angel wasn’t particularly attached to either his house or the Records Hall. However, on a purely quantitative basis, the Records Hall was a comparative bastion of literacy worth preserving. Whereas Aziraphale’s house was, as Crowley had uncharitably characterized it, a _hovel_. 

The Records Hall was not on fire when he approached its stone steps. That boded well. 

He descended into the basement and laid basic flame-repellent wards along the foundations. Aziraphale doubted that any guards would arrive at this late afternoon hour, if his earlier message had been successfully received by the Pharaoh, but it was a precaution worth taking. 

While inscribing a glyph in the walls of the subterranean hallways, he hesitated outside the door of the last storeroom in the hallway. Then, he miracled the door open. In the darkness, he reached between the _Maxims of Ptahotep_ and the _Instructions of Kagemni_, and pulled out the seventh Sumerian tablet. Aziraphale slid it into his bag, and finished tracing glyphs in the basement. 

Then, he went back upstairs to the main workroom. 

The scribes and the assistant overseer greeted him with a respectful nod of the head. He returned their nods, perhaps a tad too slowly. Then, the other scribes returned to their work, as if Aziraphale hadn’t arrived an hour or two late from his lunch. 

One scribe broke his reed brush, and the assistant overseer replaced it. It was like a well-choreographed dance, every step landing exactly as it should.

The walls of the workshop pressed down on him. He shouldn’t even _be_ here. He should never have followed the Pharaoh to that hilltop. He should never have interfered with the ritual on the first day. He would never have known that he never progressed beyond _today_. Razikael would have given up the ghost eventually. They’d eventually make it to _tomorrow_, none the wiser, after a few thousand afternoons. 

A few thousand afternoons that started with an argument about something that didn’t even matter. A few thousand afternoons where Crowley’s memories were completely wiped at sunset. 

That was unacceptable, Aziraphale realized. He couldn’t lose his nerve now. 

To allay his anxiety, he pulled the seventh Sumerian tablet out of his bag, and laid it on his desk. Then, he continued reading from where he’d left off. The gods had condemned Enkidu to die, but surely a _deus ex machina_ would emerge to save him in turn. Surely Gilgamesh would not have to live out the remainder of his life without Enkidu - 

> _Enkidu lay on his sickbed, a victim of the gods’ wrath. Then he called to Gilgamesh, “My friend, the great goddess cursed me and I must die in shame. I was the star who fell from heaven, the companion that would never forsake you, but I shall not die like a man fallen in battle. I feared to fall, but happy is the man who falls in the battle, for I must die in shame.”_
> 
> _And Gilgamesh wept over Enkidu. At the first light of dawn, he touched Enkidu’s heart but it did not beat, nor did he lift his eyes again. When Gilgamesh touched his heart it did not beat. So Gilgamesh laid a veil over his friend, as one veils his bride. Seven days and seven nights he wept for Enkidu. Only then he gave him up to the earth._
> 
> _So passed the star who fell from heaven through the gates of Death. _

The angel threw the tablet against the wall. It shattered into a dozen pieces on impact. The scribes in the workshop all jolted upright. 

Aziraphale tried to calm his breathing. “You, what’s your name?” he asked the assistant scribe overseer. 

“Nofret,” he said. 

“Nofret, I quit,” said Aziraphale. “Congratulations. You’re promoted to scribe overseer. Go speak to the Pharaoh tomorrow to make it official.”

“Sir?” said Nofret. The man could hardly conceal his excitement. 

“The Records Hall doesn’t need me,” said Aziraphale. “I’ll just clear out my things, shall I?” 

He gathered up his scribe’s kit into his bag, but left the fragments of the tablet on the ground, in the dust.

He hesitated again as he passed by the door to his office. It wouldn’t hurt to ask one more time. 

This time, he inked a circle very carefully on his office floor, and lit seven candles and placed them carefully around the circumference, rather than scattering seven pieces of whatever flammable items happened to be on hand at the time. Even his sloppiest summoning circle had been effective, but - just in case anyone was listening this time -

“Hello, you have reached the office of the Voice of God. We are sorry that we are not available to take your call right now. Please leave a message after the tone.” 

Aziraphale stared blankly at the blue light shining out of the circle. Insanity was, indeed, doing the same thing over and over again, but expecting a different result each time. Crowley would have loved to hear that one of his inane aphorisms had actually applied to the angel’s situation.

“The length of your message has reached its temporal limit,” said the voice. “Your call is very important to us.” 

There was nothing he could say to the Voice of God. There was nothing he _wanted_ to say to the Voice of God. 

“We will respond within five business days,” concluded the voice, and the circle closed in on itself. 

Aziraphale stood, staring into the lifeless summoning circle for a while longer. 

Then he strode out of the Records Hall, into the open air of the city. 

It was mid-afternoon. Aziraphale was struck by a compulsion to check on the demon and join him for a late lunch. It would be a terrible idea if he actually did. His resolve would crumble, and he’d end up rambling about a time loop again. But it was only prudent to check that the tracking ward was still in place, and that the demon hadn’t been shanked by any guards when Aziraphale had been elsewhere occupied. He compromised with his worst instincts and climbed a ladder to oversee the market from a rooftop. Crowley would be finishing up his budget meeting at the temple anytime now. 

And, just as he had seen the demon many loops ago, he spotted Crowley queuing at a malt beer vendor of middling quality. A woman wearing far too many gold bracelets was right behind Crowley. The demon and the priestess struck up a conversation. He laughed. She brushed the hair out of her eyes. They took their drinks and left the stand. 

Almost against his will, his legs carried him on a parallel path on the city rooftops, back to another alleyway. He couldn’t feel his legs beneath him. 

Crowley was leaning against the wall, his arms crossed. The priestess stood in front of him. She cocked her head, and she spoke. Aziraphale couldn’t hear the words, but he saw Crowley smirk in response. He uncrossed his arms and stood closer to the priestess, so that there was a bare handsbreadth of space between them. Then he bent his neck and whispered in her ear. 

The priestess’s gaze hardened, and she stepped forward and vanquished the distance between the two of them, and kissed the demon. 

Aziraphale felt lightheaded. Bile rose in his throat, and he viciously turned away. 

The nausea gave way to guilt almost immediately. 

The angel had only been able to justify his liaisons with Crowley because of the time loop. Nobody, not Head Office, not Razikael, not even Crowley himself knew the full extent of Aziraphale’s activities during the previous Tuesdays, because they’d never even _happened_. And of course Crowley was allowed to allowed to carry out temptations in whatever way seemed best. Aziraphale hadn’t had any problem with it the first time he spotted the demon with the priestess in the alleyway. 

He’d never had any claim to the demon’s affections. Nothing had changed. He shouldn’t feel sick. Yet he did. 

The unspoken question hovered in the air, lingering like smoke. He forced it into the back of his mind. 

There would be a day to deal with that question, but it wasn’t - it _couldn’t _be today. There was too much on his plate. The fate of the damned time-space continuum depended on him. Pharaoh Akhenaten depended on him. Even Crowley’s own fate depended on him. There was nobody else who was aware of the time loops that could deal with Razikael. He had no time to fail, let alone time to ask himself what paradox the demon represented. 

But Aziraphale stole one more glance down into the alley nevertheless. A tangle of limbs and rumpled clothing. A flash of flushed skin and tousled, fiery hair. 

He didn’t look again. 

Aziraphale walked slowly away on the city rooftops, very aware of the wind on his face and the heaviness of the air. The voices in the nearby market were louder, the colours brighter. It weighed on him in a way it hadn’t in a long time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks again to GraphiteGirl for the beta. Thanks to SilchasRuin for asking the hard questions. And thanks to all commenters and kudos-givers. You bring warmth to the cold cockles of my heart this winter season. 
> 
> To anyone's who noticed the "total chapter" count creeping up with every update, I'm now 90% sure that this story proper will have 23 chapters. There will also be a few chapters of author's notes detailing historical context, and the design of Aziraphale's character development.


	18. Collateral Damage

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aziraphale confronts the Pharaoh.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Also, I am sorry.

Crowley arrived at the temple sanctuary first. “What’s the knife for?” he said.

Aziraphale paused his mental recitation - _aberration, corruption, mistake_ \- and looked up. The angel had been sitting on the wide stone steps, fiddling with the knife that he used to trim reed brushes. With a small twirl, he transformed his reed brush into a spear with a blade a half-cubit long. He laid it on the steps beside him.

“Crowley,” said Aziraphale. “I haven’t been entirely honest with you.”

“I hope that’s not for me,” said Crowley, still staring at the spear. “It’s not sporting to stab an unarmed combatant.”

“Unarmed’s never been a problem for you,” said Aziraphale. He picked up the spear and it became a knife again. “I mean, you could sprout fangs and bite my head off anytime you wanted to.” He pulled the length of rope that he’d taken from a guard out of his bag, and offered it to the demon. “Would you tie this around your wrists, please?”

“It’d be polite to take me out to dinner first,” said Crowley. He didn’t take the rope. “You’d better explain yourself. Quickly.”

Aziraphale paraphrased the situation. The Pharaoh had been possessed by Razikael. They were all trapped in a time loop. Only Razikael and Aziraphale remembered the events of previous loops.

“I’ve got Nubian princes on my payroll more legitimate than that load of hot air,” said Crowley.

“You threatened Harnu’s mother at your budget meeting today. Then you tempted a priestess.”

“And you’ve also been spying on me, to boot.” The demon’s voice was incredulous. “What’s next, Archangel Gabriel jumping out of a flower bush?”

“Well, no,” admitted Aziraphale. “But I have this.” He pulled the scroll out of his bag and unrolled it.

Crowley whistled. “Bless, angel. Where’d you find this?”

Since the demon was now suitably impressed by the age and obscurity of the demonic text, Aziraphale continued his explanation. They’d translated the scroll together over the course of many loops. The ritual used to start the time loop had never worked successfully, but only the original caster could end the time loop they’d created. Razikael had promised that she’d free Aziraphale from the time loop if he delivered Crowley and the scroll, ostensibly so that she could secure Crowley’s assistance in translating the full set of seven within her next stab at a time loop. The demon’s eyebrows rose higher and higher.

“Don’t tell me you’re actually going to deliver,” said Crowley.

“No,” said Aziraphale, and outlined an abbreviated version of the plan he had presented to the demon during the previous afternoon. A very heavily abbreviated version. “I need you here so that so the Pharaoh will agree to lift the loops. Under no circumstances would I permit her to capture you. Then, after time goes back to normal, we’ll - er - take care of her.”

“A double-cross,” said Crowley. “Got it.” He took the rope from Aziraphale, but noticing a silver gleam between the fibres, said, “Are those _runes?_”

“Believe it or not,” said Aziraphale, “this is not the worst idea we’ve had this Tuesday.”

“_We?_” said Crowley.

“You helped me with the scroll translation,” said Aziraphale. “Then we thought up this plan together. It’s actually, er, also mostly your plan.”

“This one? It’s barely half a plan,” said Crowley. “Too simple. The Pharaoh’ll see it from a mile away. I don’t think I want the credit.”

“You liked it fine last loop,” said Aziraphale. “I know you have your doubts, but we’re going to get through this, together. I promise.”

The angel’s profession of faith in the plan seemed to cinch Crowley’s cooperation. “Alright,” said the demon. “I’m going to need some help with this, though.” He offered the rope back to Aziraphale, and then presented his wrists to the angel.

Aziraphale took the rope and wrapped it several around both the demon’s wrists, shaking slightly. “The runes are for Binding and Weakening only,” he explained. He’d omitted Nullification on purpose.

“Why have runes at all?”

“Would Razikael believe that I captured you with a mundane rope?” said Aziraphale. He looped the free ends of the rope together and knotted them between the demon’s wrists. 

Crowley tugged at his restraints experimentally. They didn’t budge. “Solid runework, I guess,” he said.

“Thank you,” said Aziraphale. “Not to worry, I’ll release them when the time comes.”

“What’s next?”

“I’ve relayed a message to the Pharaoh. She’s to come just before sunset; otherwise the bargain is forfeit. If she tries to get clever I’ll burn the scroll, and we’d be back to the beginning tomorrow afternoon.”

Crowley nodded in understanding.

They lapsed into silence.

“So, exciting day,” said Crowley brightly.

Aziraphale stared at the demon. “You could say that,” he said.

“You got any plans after?”

“After?” said Aziraphale blankly.

“Y’know, after you exorcise the Pharaoh and time goes back to normal.”

“I hadn’t thought about it,” said Aziraphale. Before he’d gotten stuck in this Tuesday afternoon, he would probably have put another set of hours away at the Records Hall. But he’d just quit in sight of his assistant overseer, and half his junior scribes. Wednesday stretched before him, full of terrifying, entrancing possibility. 

“You must be quite proud of all this plotting and scheming,” said Crowley. “Upstairs’ll have to give you a commendation for exorcising the Pharaoh.”

“Head Office hasn’t been too keen to believe me on the time travel issue,” said Aziraphale.

“Well, they’ll have to believe you when you bring up the set of scrolls.”

“I don’t think that’s a very good idea.”

“Why not?” needled Crowley. “Ought to get credit where credit’s due.”

“Lilith’s research has been dangerous enough as it is. What if Head Office decides to improve the ritual? I mean, of course they wouldn’t. But say they did. That would be too risky. Best not to let anyone else in on this.”

“So who knows about the time loop?”

“Me. You. Razikael,” said Aziraphale. 

“I’m honoured,” said Crowley.

“Yes. Well,” said Aziraphale. “What happens to _you_ afterwards? You won’t tell anybody else about the time loop, will you?”

“Of course I’m going to leave it off my paperwork,” said Crowley. “They’d think I’d gone completely barmy otherwise. If anybody asks what happened to Razikael, I’ll just frame it as a philosophical difference.”

“A philosophical difference?”

Crowley shrugged. “It’s traditional. Nobody blinks if you discorporate someone over a philosophical difference.”

“You mean, me?”

“No, I mean other demons trying to make a move on the country,” said Crowley. “Can’t believe Razikael flew under my nose for so long. Must be the possession thing.”

“I didn’t realize there were others,” said Aziraphale.

“Oh, there were,” said Crowley vaguely. “Office politics, you know. Think of it as stealing Dagon’s corner office, except instead of getting a window overlooking a lake of fire, you get a whole country.”

Annoyance rose up within the angel. It was an _angel’s_ job to deal with demonic usurpers. “Why didn’t I notice any of the other demons? I could have helped you with them.”

“Erm. Really?” said Crowley. “I mean, it looks bad on me if I get help to dispatch every jumped-up demon looking for a shortcut up the corporate ladder. Not to mention, you don’t really come off as, uh, the _helping_ sort.” 

Aziraphale opened his mouth to reply, but then he realized that it was true. He’d never so much as offered to pick up a restaurant bill, let alone evict another demon encroaching on their - _his_ dominion. He closed his mouth again, feeling shame creep up the back of his neck. “Perhaps not,” he mumbled.

Luckily, Crowley didn’t notice, being preoccupied with trying to scratch the back of his head. The demon remembered his hands were tied mid-movement and aborted the attempt. “You still haven’t answered my question, by the way,” said Crowley.

“What question?”

“Y’know. What are your plans after this? We could still go to the tavern.”

“Perhaps,” said Aziraphale, feeling his stomach sink.

“Or maybe it might be best to stay clear of Egypt for a while. I’m thinking Mexico -”

“Crowley,” interrupted Aziraphale. “Could you please - not - right now -”

“What’s the matter?” said Crowley.

“I can’t think about what happens after,” said Aziraphale wearily. “I need to concentrate on exorcising Razikael first.” In truth, he’d done quite enough thinking about _that_ too during the last few afternoons already. He wanted nothing more than to sit and pretend that he hadn’t invited the Pharaoh to the Temple of Aten.

“Alright,” said Crowley. “I’ll let you think.”

And then Aziraphale thought, if he was going to pretend, then by God, he was going to pretend _well_. “I quit my job this afternoon,” he said lightly.

“What?” squawked Crowley. “How can you quit? You love books and writing and, uh, other scribe stuff -”

“Being a scribe isn’t what it’s cracked up to be,” said Aziraphale. “You’re always taking dictation for Lord Hoity-Toity’s letters to his brother-in-law, or filing harvest records so they don’t get mixed in with Lord Hoity’s letters, or calculating next year’s taxes. Nofret’s been peering over my shoulder for the last ten years. I’m sure he’s picked up enough to manage the department without me.”

“But what about _you?_” said Crowley. “What will you do?”

“I’ve thought about becoming the court astronomer. Or astrologer. It’s sort of the same thing right now,” said Aziraphale. “Not for the current Pharaoh, of course, but for the next, once everything settles down a bit. They’ll call me out to go read the stars once in a blue moon, and I’ll still have the Pharaoh’s ear. Most of the time I expect they’ll leave me alone, and I’ll get to do other things. Maybe get a hobby.” He brightened up. “I could write a book. Or start a university.” He could see it now - pale towers spiralling skyward, stone halls of scholarship, shelves of scrolls as far as the eye could see -

“Good hobbies,” choked out Crowley. The demon was on the verge of laughter, but making a valiant attempt to be supportive.

“Better than yours,” said Aziraphale, sliding into the familiar companionate groove. “All you’ve got is your temptations and the - the Anatolian Prince scam, and -”

“That’s the _Nubian_ Prince _scheme_, and it is not a scam,” corrected the demon. “I’m completely legitimate. I also dabble in garden design.”

“Is that an euphemism for burning the fields and salting the earth, Crowley?”

The demon shot a dirty look at the angel, which was undercut by a crinkle at the corner of his eye. “Do I look like Daeva?”

“No,” said Aziraphale, who hadn’t actually met Daeva yet.

But Crowley wasn’t done. “See the temple grounds?” he said, grandiosely pointing at the temple grounds with bound wrists. “That was all me.”

“The sun-disk is a bit on-the-nose, isn’t it?” said Aziraphale, gesturing at the huge red circle on the ground. Shrubbery and flowerbeds radiated out from the circle, like the rays of a sun.

“Except that,” corrected the demon. “Pharaoh wanted that bit. Can’t fix a client’s bad taste.” He sighed dramatically.” The rest of it, though,” continued Crowley, in a brighter tone, “is going to look fantastic when it’s filled in.”

Aziraphale could see what the demon was getting at. The ponds, bursting with blue lotus flowers, had been strategically arranged throughout the gardens to serve as a source of water for irrigation. The trees would eventually grow tall enough to shade the long paths through the grounds. Even some of the silly planted sunrays extending from the Aten-disc on the ground included specimens of medicinal herbs and spices.

The angel glanced back over at Crowley, and saw that the demon was smiling. His eyes shone golden with hopes and dreams for his garden. Aziraphale returned the smile, even as he thought his heart might burst.

The spell was broken by the thunder of hooves.

Aziraphale scrambled to stand behind Crowley, pushing the demon to his knees to complete the illusion that he’d been taken captive. He gripped his brush-sharping knife in one hand, and dug through his satchel to find the seventh scroll.

The Vizier rode in on the back of a galloping brown warhorse, outfitted with a lightly-padded leather saddle. The reins and bridle were adorned with gilded Aten-discs. He wheeled his mount around and on the red-tiled Aten-disc in front of the temple sanctuary to face his accompanying mounted escort of guards. “At ease,” he barked. The guards arranged themselves in a loose formation behind the Vizier. Satisfied with the arrangement, he then turned to face the angel.

“Hail, scribe,” said the Vizier, in a much friendlier tone than the one he had used in his last several encounters with Aziraphale. “I see you’ve brought the priest. And I assume you’ve brought the scroll as well?” The former general’s manner was more relaxed in the saddle than it had been when he’d been guarding the Pharaoh’s study.

“I have,” called Aziraphale. He raised the scroll in the air.

“I’ll take them both, thank you,” said the Vizier. “His Majesty will honour the terms of your agreement, as discussed previously.” He spoke the words as if reciting them from memory, like a junior scribe taking dictation for a text he did not yet understand.

“No,” said Aziraphale sharply.

The Vizier’s smile grew strained. “His Majesty is a man of his word, and so am I.” His mounted escort readied their spears. 

“You weren’t part of the deal. I’ll only make the exchange in person.” Hadn’t the terms of his offer been clear? Annoyance surged up inside the angel, despite the numerous spears that were pointed at his person.

“Really?” said the Vizier. “We could just take you with us.”

Aziraphale took his knife and held it to Crowley’s throat. “I believe the Pharaoh wanted the priest and the scroll _intact_,” he said.

“Hey!” said the demon.

“Trust me,” whispered Aziraphale to Crowley. The angel held his shields tightly against him. Then he addressed the Vizier again. “How will the Pharaoh take it, if you return with a dead priest and the scroll in pieces?” he asked.

The Vizier’s silence was enough.

“Bring the Pharaoh before sunset, or you’ll answer to the son of Aten,” said Aziraphale. “Or you’ll explain to Ma’at, if you prefer.”

“Fine,” snapped the Vizier. “But my men will remain.” He motioned to the guards. Half of them surrounded Aziraphale and Crowley in a rough semicircle against the steps of the temple sanctuary.

“We’re not going anywhere,” said Aziraphale. 

The Vizier wheeled back around on his mount and rode back towards the palace, with the other half of the guards in tow.

“Was that part of the plan?” said Crowley, in a low voice.

“Not really,” said Aziraphale. “But it changes nothing.”

“You weren’t actually going to discorporate me, were you?” said Crowley.

“Crowley, when I want to discorporate you, you’ll know,” said Aziraphale. “Just, er, let me do the talking this once, please.”

“Alright,” said Crowley, sounding reassured.

Aziraphale waited for Crowley to say something flippant about the Vizier, or the tavern, or anything else at all, but the demon graced him with a tiny, tight smile, before turning back to keep a watch on the entrance to the temple grounds. The moment had passed.

They waited for the Pharaoh in silence.

**∽⧗∼** ****

Word of the Pharaoh’s impromptu visit to the Temple of the Aten spread quickly, and in the next half hour, the townsfolk had gathered in loose clumps around the temple grounds. Some of them would have come for evening prayers anyway. Most of the others were the sort that only came to the temple on special occasions, because there was free food available. _They_ were there to catch a glimpse of the elusive Pharaoh. And a few of the wealthier residents of Akhetaten were there to _be_ glimpsed by the Pharaoh, so that he’d know of their piety when it came time to appoint the next Master of Horses or Overseer of Gardens. 

The clatter of hooves announced the Pharaoh’s arrival in a gilded chariot, with the Aten-disc prominently emblazoned on every flat surface. The Pharaoh himself wore armour of overlapping bronze plates, and a headdress of stiffened blue fabric with a golden cobra on the front. It was worn for ceremonies of state.

It was also worn for war. 

The chariot was followed by possibly every one of the royal guards in a fifty-strong squadron. They were armed with a variety of weapons - spears, swords, slings, and bows, and their armour ranged from padded cloth armour for most of the soldiers, to leather for the captains and commanders, but they all wore an Aten-disc amulet around their necks.

The squadron joined the existing guards in surrounding Aziraphale and Crowley on the low steps of the temple sanctuary, forming a corridor between the Pharaoh’s chariot and the steps of the sanctuary. 

“Principality,” called Razikael, from her golden chariot. “You’ve agreed to my terms, then?”

“I have,” said Aziraphale. He shielded himself as well as he could, and firmed up his voice. “I have the scroll. And I have the demon.” A vague smugness and coiled anticipation had begun to seep through Crowley’s shields. Aziraphale let it happen. Razikael was looking for a betrayal, so Aziraphale would give her one - just not the betrayal she was expecting.

“I’m surprised, actually,” said Razikael. “You were so reluctant to give up your demon accomplice earlier.”

Aziraphale tried to shrug. “I realized that you’d only draw the same conclusions I did after completing the translation, regardless of whether or not you have Crowley. So what if it takes you ten afternoons or ten thousand? I’ll only remember experiencing one of them.” 

“Truly?” said Razikael, with interest.

“I don’t care what you do with the demon,” said Aziraphale. “He’s all yours.”

The Pharaoh sniffed the air. “You’re still a liar,” she said. “But I’ll take the bait. Brave of you, to offer me what I need.”

Aziraphale tightened his shields, and said, “I’m not condoning your actions. But we are at an impasse, aren’t we? I’m not getting any further thwarting your wiles. You’re not getting any further with your research. We could both stand a change of scenery.”

“Aren’t you afraid that I’ll prevail in my dastardly plan to undo the injustices of Heaven?” said Razikael, with a quirk of her mouth.

“Hardly. Like I’ve told you, you’ll never be able to travel back in time far enough to achieve your goal. _Insanity is trying the same thing over and over, expecting different results each time_,” said Aziraphale, quoting Crowley.

“I’ve never heard that before,” said Razikael. “But be certain I’ll succeed. It’s only a matter of time.”

“That’s debatable,” said Aziraphale, as dismissively as he could. His hands were beginning to sweat. He’d forgotten that bodies did that sometimes.

“I’d like to know how you convinced the demon to come to the temple in the first place,” said Razikael.

“Simple,” said Aziraphale. “A few well-placed lies. I told him we’d go to the tavern together. But here we are instead.”

“Must have been a struggle,” said Razikael. “He’s a bit more powerful than you are.”

“You know how it is,” said Aziraphale. “Good always triumphs over evil.”

“That it does,” said Razikael. “Well, then. It appears all the pieces are in place.” 

She dismounted from the chariot, waving off the Vizier when he moved to help her down.

Aziraphale took a step backwards, yanking Crowley to his feet with him. The demon made a muffled noise of protest. “Don’t come any closer,” said Aziraphale. He lifted a knife to Crowley’s throat, hand trembling.

“Why summon me if you’re not going to hold up your end of the bargain?”

“I want you to end the loops before you get the scroll, or the demon.” 

“So you can double-cross me afterwards?” said Razikael, with a smile. “No, thank you.” 

_Of course we’re going to try and double-cross each other. _But Aziraphale said, “No. Because you’re a demon, and I don’t trust you.”

“And because you’re an angel, you’re infallible?” sneered Razikael. “No. I know too much about the _infallibility_ of angels.”

“How about I hand over the demon first, then?” suggested Aziraphale. “Then, after you end the time loop, I’ll give you the scroll, as well.”

“The demon,” said Razikael slowly. She looked directly at Aziraphale. The angel parted his shields slightly, and allowed fear and nausea to permeate his own aura. “No, I think I’ll take the scroll, instead,” she said.

“Are you sure?” said Aziraphale shakily. He didn’t need to feign that. “I could kill Crowley once you uphold your end of the bargain -”

“Yes. You could just as easily burn the scroll. But the seventh scroll is irreplaceable. The demon isn’t.”

“But I could just as well cut this demon’s throat, or destroy him with Holy Water,” said Aziraphale. Crowley jolted, and real fear suffused his aura. Aziraphale held his breath and tightened his grip on the demon’s arm.

Razikael sniffed the air again, and said, “You wouldn’t kill him. He helped you translate the scroll.”

“I have killed him. On multiple occasions. Fairly recently, too. And I’d do it again,” insisted Aziraphale.

Crowley hissed in surprise. The smugness had begun to diffuse from his aura, being replaced by tightly-wound doubt.

“But this time is different,” she said. “Perhaps I’ve misjudged you. Perhaps you have loyalties beyond the Light of Heaven.”

“I don’t,” said Aziraphale.

“Still a liar,” Razikael said, but she flicked her tongue out, this time. “No, not a liar. Just a fool,” she amended, and a sly smile played at her lips. “In any case, I’ve made up my mind. Give me the scroll, Principality.”

Aziraphale suppressed a breath of relief. The first phase of his plan had gone swimmingly, which was good, because he needed Crowley close by for the second phase. He said, “Alright. I’ll keep the demon until you end the loops. You’re not getting both until after sunset.” He pulled the scroll out of his bag, and tossed it at the Pharaoh.

She caught it easily, and unrolled it. Her brow furrowed as she studied the text within for several long moments before she looked up again. “It bodes well that you haven’t tried to cheat me yet,” she said. “Remember the last time you came to my office, and tried to throw Holy Water on me? Good times, as they say.”

The angel ignored the Pharaoh’s barb. “End the loop, then,” he said. 

“As you wish,” Razikael said. She pulled out a small orb from a jeweled leather pouch at her waist. Aziraphale recognized it as the snake’s egg she’d pulled from the fire on the very first Tuesday, after she’d sacrificed a garden snake into the flames. Then she dropped it to the ground and crushed it under her heel.

A green smoke wafted out from the egg, and Razikael spoke Words. The Words were neither angelic nor demonic. They just _were_. He felt them hang heavily in the air as time and space shifted creakily and realigned itself, and a part of him that had felt lost and unmoored since that first Tuesday snapped back into place.

Crowley broke the silence first. “Was that it?” he said, head perfectly still, as if he was afraid that Aziraphale’s knife would slip on his neck. 

“Did you expect something else, demon?” said Razikael. 

“Well, maybe something a bit flashier,” said Crowley.

“You can help me with that later,” said Razikael. She nodded at Aziraphale. “Give him to me,” she said.

“Not until I’ve got proof that you’ve actually ended the loops,” said Aziraphale. “Not until sunset.”

“As you wish,” said Razikael. “Don’t even think about running. I’ve got archers on the sanctuary roof.”

Aziraphale released Crowley. The demon reached up and rubbed his neck where the brush-sharpening knife had pressed into his skin, even though Aziraphale hadn’t sharpened it since he’d had himself installed as scribe overseer, several dynasties ago.

The Pharaoh’s guards arranged themselves into two columns, flanking a narrow pathway from Aziraphale to Razikael.

Aziraphale stood for an eternity at the top of the steps, the sliver of sun peeking over the horizon growing slimmer and slimmer. He glanced at Crowley. The demon looked perfectly calm, though his hands were bound. He radiated a serene optimism that was at odds with Aziraphale’s nerves. Then Crowley turned and their eyes met, and he offered the angel a small smile. Aziraphale tried to return the smile but the best he could do was pull his lips into a grimace. So he settled for watching the sunset one more time.

At last, the last sliver of the sun disappeared behind the horizon. There was no green light, only golden streaks in the sky. The Nile and the lotus-ponds in the garden reflected the light towards Aziraphale’s eyes, and he had to shield himself from the glare with his free hand.

“I’ve delivered on my end of the bargain,” said Razikael. “Now you deliver on yours, Principality.”

“Go,” Aziraphale said to Crowley, loud enough for the Pharaoh and the entourage to hear, but too softly for them to catch the exact words. “I’ll be right behind you.”

“I can hear you plotting,” called the Pharaoh. “There’s two of you and fifty of my people. Don’t be stupid.”

Aziraphale ignored Razikael, and whispered to Crowley, “We can take them on. Trust me on this.”

The demon began to cross the temple courtyard, between the two rows of guards, his bound hands in front of him. Each step away from Aziraphale took longer than the last, and it demanded every ounce of willpower he had not to follow the demon.

Crowley made it a few steps before he turned uncertainly back at Aziraphale.

Aziraphale nodded encouragingly, but made no move to follow. Crowley was still too close. He needed to put more space between himself and the demon.

Crowley took some steps closer to the Pharaoh. The demon was not quite halfway across when he turned back to look at Aziraphale again.

The angel had carefully set his features into the coldest expression he could manage, and raised his shields to their fullest extents. “Keep walking, serpent,” said Aziraphale. Each word stung like acid as it passed between his lips. 

“Aziraphale?” said Crowley tentatively.

“You are an aberration. A corruption of your true purpose,” said Aziraphale. “A mistake. The Almighty was right to toss you out of Heaven. Go join the Pharaoh, and leave me alone.” He recited each word without emotion. Each accusation was one he had made before, long ago, as he and Crowley had argued on a riverbank or in a tavern or at a market square. And each time, the demon had brushed the accusation off with a laugh or a shrug.

But now - Crowley had trusted him, and exposed the soft underbelly of his shields, and each accusation struck true. The demon’s aura roiled, each word adding another thread of doubt and fear and horror. Aziraphale could feel Crowley struggling to keep it together. “I’m not,” protested the demon.

Razikael was looking at the proceedings with confusion. “Shut up, Principality,” she began, but Aziraphale raised his voice, and spoke over her.

“Not a mistake? Not a _demon?_” said Aziraphale. He forced a cruel laugh. It sounded like a cough, but Crowley flinched nonetheless. “You’re not fit for anything else. Go crawl in the mud, like the snake you are. Crawl back into the Abyss.”

Crowley’s shields blew wide open, and the angel felt his aura envelope the temple grounds in full force. Confusion struck Aziraphale first, followed by bitter realization, and a tidal wave of blood-red, fatalistic anger. The horses reared, throwing the mounted guards, before stampeding for the exit. Some of the townsfolk were sprinting for the exit to the temple grounds as well. Razikael and the guards looked shaken. The ones who were made of sterner stuff automatically fell back to form a wall in front of the Pharaoh. 

The demon let out a long hiss that sent shivers up Aziraphale’s spine. Then he struggled with the rope binding his wrists for a moment, then his form blurred and he grew, until he was a great black serpent. The ropes fell to the ground, still knotted in loops.

Aziraphale flung out his wings at the top of the sanctuary steps, and his knife lengthened into a spear in his grasp. A gasp ran out through the crowd. In his best imitation of Gabriel’s voice, he called, “Face me, serpent. You won’t escape alive.”

“Capture the snake!” screamed Razikael. “Don’t kill him!”

This was the plan that Crowley had proposed countless afternoons ago. Impersonate the local deities. Shake the guards’ faith. Drive them away from Razikael. And it was working perfectly. The guards wavered, unsure if they should disobey the son of Aten, or get caught in the crossfire between the Lady of Justice and the Lord of Chaos. They chose the former. The remnants of the guards’ neat twin-column formation broke, leaving a wide circle of bystanders around Aziraphale and the Pharaoh.

Crowley lunged at Aziraphale first. The angel dodged the attack, and returned a blow with the butt of his spear. All his old polearms training had come back to him after all. The celestial weaponsmaster would have been proud.

“For a moment there, I thought we were friendssssss,” hissed Crowley.

_We were_, the angel thought involuntarily, but closed himself off again. He heard the townsfolk cry out, “Apep returns!” and scattered prayers to Ma’at in the clearing.

Crowley circled the edge of the makeshift arena, as if he were a great cat stalking his prey, and not a cornered snake. Aziraphale feinted with the blade-end of his staff. The demon answered the feint with a wild lunge.

Aziraphale dodged the lunge, and told himself this was a good sign. The plan was working. Crowley didn’t care if he was going to be discorporated or not, and he struck recklessly at the angel again.

Aziraphale sidestepped that blow too. Then he leapt after the demon, buoyed by his wings, to sweep widely at Crowley’s tail. The snake dodged his messy slash and whipped around to sink his fangs into Aziraphale’s leg.

The angel gasped in pain, and stabbed at Crowley with the spear again. The demon disengaged his teeth from the angel’s leg, but not soon enough to avoid a wound in his side. Aziraphale’s wound burned, and he healed it with a touch. Then, he blocked Crowley’s retaliatory lunge with the middle of his staff.

He stayed on the defensive, returning Crowley’s strikes with a few of his own when he could, and blocking them when he could not. The demon’s aura was full of pain, now. He wasn’t bothering to heal himself. Even more of the onlookers had fallen to the ground, or were fleeing from the battle. Razikael looked furious, but her guards were still unwilling to intervene in a battle between two gods, and paid no heed to her orders. Nor could she find an opening to intervene to strike Aziraphale down without hurting Crowley further. But the longer Aziraphale waited, the more likely that Razikael would interrupt their duel anyway. He couldn’t put off the final steps of the plan any longer.

The demon reared up for another reckless blow, and hissed, fangs bared. Aziraphale whirled his spear around and plunged it into the roof of Crowley’s open mouth.

And before the demon could scream, Aziraphale pulled the spear out and decapitated the snake. Crowley’s head fell to the ground, sightless, accusatory eyes boring holes through Aziraphale. Blood pooled on the courtyard tiles.

The crimson cloud of pain that had swept the temple grounds lifted abruptly. A roar of triumph rose up from the crowd. “Spit on Apep, kick the Apep, smite the Apep, fetter Apep, burn the Apep!” 

_I suppose I’d better finish the job, _thought Aziraphale bleakly. He waved his hand and set fire to Crowley’s serpentine corpse. It burned with supernatural rapidity, until nothing was left except ashes to be scattered in the wind.

The Pharaoh began to glow with anger. “You -” began Razikael, furiously. “Guards - grab the scribe. You’ll spend the next loops rotting in a cell.”

The guards hesitated to obey. Crowley’s contribution to the plan had worked perfectly. In their eyes, Aziraphale had proven himself to be more than a scribe. The Pharaoh’s singular devotion to sun-worship couldn’t displace centuries of tradition. None of the guards would stand against the goddess who would judge their souls in the afterlife.

“The heretic king and I shall have words today,” Aziraphale told the crowd. “But those words are not for your ears. All of you, go home. Don’t come back until sunrise.” The crowd lingered. None of them wanted to miss a showdown between the Pharaoh and the Lady of Justice.

He thought Razikael might protest, but her anger dimmed a tiny fraction, and she inclined her head towards Aziraphale instead. She’d lost control of the guards, and it would take too much power to rouse them to her side again. There was no point in having an audience anymore.

“Go,” called Aziraphale again, this time putting a touch of divinity into his voice. He raised the winds, and the stirrings of a sandstorm rose up around their feet.

The crowd scattered.

Aziraphale and Razikael waited until the temple grounds were clear.

Razikael spoke first. “You killed the demon.” She’d reclaimed a semblance of calm, though her breathing was still deep and haggard.

“Not killed. Discorporated,” said Aziraphale. He forced the nausea at the back of his throat away. 

“I saw the look on his face. You might as well have killed him.”

“It was for the best,” said Aziraphale unconvincingly. “You can’t force him to help you with your research anymore.” The demon was safe in Hell, suffering through no worse than the urgent need to file an incident report. Then why did his victory taste so much like regret? Aziraphale tried to shake it off as best as he could, but grief clung to him like the smell of smoke. All he could do now was to move onto the final stage of the plan. If he didn’t, then Crowley’s discorporation would have been completely pointless.

“And killing him is so much better?” said Razikael. “He _helped_ you with the translation dozens of times. You turned on him like it was nothing, but I suppose that’s all that can be expected from the likes of _you_. Loyalty only to the light of Heaven, indeed.”

“There’s fates worse than discorporation,” said Aziraphale. Despair loomed on the horizon, but he pushed it back. He could keep it at bay for a few moments longer to deal with the Pharaoh. Aziraphale collected his power around him, and the contents of a pond in the temple garden rose up into the air behind the Pharaoh. It hang in the air like a huge crystal, veined with lotus flowers and sunlight. “Like getting trapped with you for a hundred Wednesdays,” he continued, strain cracking his voice. “Or this -”

He blessed the water with a Word, and released it.

He’d thought for some time about whether or not he should use Holy Water. In the end, he decided that any other method was an unnecessary risk. It wouldn’t do, to face down the Pharaoh, end the time loop, and then get stabbed to death again. Holy Water was messy, but it was _foolproof_. There was no chance that Razikael could dodge the oncoming wave. The Pharaoh Akhenaten probably wouldn’t survive either, but he was acceptable collateral damage. Crowley was not. For a moment, Aziraphale was glad he’d sent Crowley back to Hell, where he could not be hurt again -

The Pharaoh looked up just in time to see a watery shadow pass over her face, before the Holy Water came crashing down.

Aziraphale had heard the stories of what happened when a demon came into contact with Holy Water. He expected the force of the water to knock her back. He expected her to scream, to melt, to blacken into a sooty mess in the middle of the red-tiled Aten-disc.

But when the wave broke over her head, Razikael stood upright, looking soggier than a few moments previous, but otherwise none the worse for wear. Then, in a burst of light, the water on her skin was vaporized. It was as if Aziraphale had never dropped a pondful of Holy Water on her. _How could that be - unless -_

The angel Razikael unsheathed Mnemosyne from her belt with one hand, and a bronze khopesh with the other, and Aziraphale felt his carefully designed plans fall to pieces.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, I hope you were surprised, but not _too_ surprised, because of the foreshadowing. I know some of you saw this coming! 
> 
> Also, this story still has a happy ending. Don't worry.


	19. Razikael

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aziraphale confronts the Pharaoh, part 2.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The first two thirds of this are approximately the best thing I've written to date.

“Surprised, Principality?” said Razikael. 

Aziraphale’s mind churned as the Pharaoh stepped forward. 

A dozen little inconsistencies suddenly clicked into place. Her name. Her fixation on justice. How she called Aziraphale _Principality_ and Crowley _demon_. How she’d said the guards had been under her _protection, _and how she’d been willing to let the townsfolk leave the temple complex just now... 

He’d thought only demons could possess humans - but angels and demons were all made of the same raw materials. If Razikael was willing to use a time loop to further her goals, then she wouldn’t be above a bit of possession to get what she wanted. 

Razikael’s aura had been no indication as to her allegiance, either. It had always smelled like lightning. But Gabriel’s aura smelled like ice. Sandalphon’s was redolent of embalmment. And Crowley smelled like wine and hay and the blazing heat of day - 

Aziraphale bit his tongue, hard. He had to keep his remaining wits about him. 

“You’re an angel,” he said, instead. The betrayal didn’t sting like he thought it might have. Upstairs had been, at best, benignly indifferent in the past few afternoons, and at worst, harmfully negligent. Gabriel was a terrible boss. Sandalphon gave him the heebie-jeebies. That the time-travelling renegade was one of _his_ instead of one of Crowley’s didn’t matter. All that mattered was ensuring that she didn’t succeed in her mission. 

“As I have always been,” said Razikael. Mnemosyne, in her left hand, lengthened and curved until it matched the bronze khopesh in her right hand. 

Aziraphale held his spear in front of him defensively. No wonder it had taken Razikael years to translate the first scroll. The only help she’d had would have been some books from Daeva’s library. Of course she’d want to secure Crowley’s assistance for the subsequent scrolls. 

There was just one last thing he didn’t understand. 

“But - why - why would you want to turn back time? If not to erase your memory of the Fall, and if not to reverse the Fall in the first place, then why?” he asked. 

Razikael looked at Aziraphale like he was a particularly dim-witted junior scribe, or a dung-beetle to squash under her heel. Suddenly, her expression softened into a sort of recognition. She lowered her swords. “I did it for Ophiel,” she said. “Or Lilith, if you like.” 

There was an unmistakably wistful tone to her words. He’d heard it from her before, but he hadn’t been able to place it until now. The last piece of the puzzle fell into place. “Because you loved her,” said Aziraphale. He hands trembled as he adjusted his grip on his spear. 

Razikael nodded. “I knew you would understand,” she said. 

“But you killed her when she asked you for help with the ritual,” said Aziraphale. 

Razikael winced at the charge, but did not deny it. “Yes, Lilith came to me for help, with open hands. She’d invented this clever little knife, Mnemosyne. It brought some of her memories from back when she was Ophiel. She thought that she could trust me. She thought I might also want to know who I was before the Fall. _We were friends before_, she said. _We could be friends again_. A demon, being friends with an angel? It was quite a thing to hear. ”

“I can imagine,” said Aziraphale. Razikael ignored him, and kept speaking, her eyes fixed on a faraway spot beyond his shoulder. 

“So, I turned her away, and promised that I’d kill her the next time we met. And then Lilith came back to me with the accursed ritual, so that with my help, she could reverse her Fall. She thought that she could prove that she hadn’t been lying about our past if she became an angel again. She thought I’d love her again if she were Ophiel again. I kept my promise. I killed her.” She drew a shuddering breath. “Her death was an injustice.” 

“But you’re trying to bring her back, now. What changed?” whispered Aziraphale. 

“What changed was that after I slew her, I found Mnemosyne on her body, along with the first scroll. It didn’t take long to find out what the knife did, and to remember everything. But it was still too late. Lilith was long gone. All I could do was track down the remaining scrolls, one by one.” 

“What did you remember?” 

“Everything,” said Razkiael, and she swept her bronze sword before her to underline the point. “I remembered everything. I remember a time before half our brethren departed the halls of Heaven. I remember who we _were_.” 

“Who we were?” repeated Aziraphale, dumbfounded. “We didn’t change. We weren’t the ones who Fell.”

“When half your friends leave you, all at once, that doesn’t change you?” accused Razikael. “It changed us, all right. I don’t know what happened. Perhaps the Almighty took pity on us and took away the pain of the memories. Perhaps it was the remaining archangels, who turned all our hearts to stone, so that we would not empathize with the enemy. Or perhaps we sealed off that part of us ourselves, when we could not bear the pain any longer. In any case, there was something that was lost to me forever - until I found Mnemosyne.” 

“I’m fine. I didn’t forget anything,” protested Aziraphale. 

“You don’t remember how there were once twice as many angels in Heaven as there are now. You don’t remember who that serpent was before he slithered into Eden. You don’t know who he was before he Fell. Was he a friend? A rival? A lover? All three?”

The charge sent a pang shooting through Aziraphale’s heart. Had he known Crowley before he was Crowley? Who had they _been? _Might things have been different if he’d known? 

_No, _he told himself. The first time he’d seen Crowley had been in the Garden of Eden. He could see the demon’s face clearly in his mind’s eye, golden eyes squinting a bit in the sun, red curls tumbling in the wind. He would have _known_ if he’d seen the demon’s face before. It was not something he would ever have forgotten.

“Mnemosyne could show you, too,” she said. “And you could find out who you were.” Her tone turned pleading. “Now you understand. Could you say that Lilith’s death wasn’t an injustice? Could you say that you wouldn’t do as I did?” 

The correct answer was _no_. Lilith was a demon who knew the risks. Aziraphale had no regrets he’d be willing to travel back in time to undo. The wind blew Crowley’s ashes by their feet, and his response stuck in his throat, choking him. 

The silence was enough for Razikael. “I knew it,” she said softly. “Work with me, Principality. We can atone for our sins, together.”

“Our sins?” said Aziraphale. 

“Your demon trusted you. He helped you. He came to you unarmed, and you discorporated him for his trouble,” she said. “That’s a sin if I ever saw one.” 

_Maybe she was right, _whispered a traitorous voice in his mind. Maybe it was the right thing to do to help her complete the time ritual. Razikael was an angel. She hadn’t Fallen despite all her manipulations of the timeline. Her cause was just. Nobody would get hurt. “We finished translating the seventh scroll,” Aziraphale said weakly. “The ritual has never worked. It’s impossible to make it work. We can’t fix things that way.” 

“It might not be impossible, if we work together,” said Razikael. “We don’t know for sure. Perhaps your demon made a mistake in the translation. Perhaps he lied to you, because he thought the ritual was too dangerous. Perhaps you and I would have the power to succeed. Lilith’s research was incomplete, after all, but the central structure of the ritual is sound.” 

She had a point. Lilith had come to Razikael for help. Perhaps Razikael knew enough to fix the ritual.

“What if we can’t?” he said, struggling to find a rationale to refuse Razikael’s offer. “What if the ritual never works?” 

“We can find a way,” said Razikael. “We _have_ to. Otherwise Lilith is lost from me forever. The same way that your serpent will be lost from you forever.”

“He’s not dead, just discorporated,” said Aziraphale. 

“Not just discorporated,” she said. “Some wounds go deeper than flesh, Principality.” Razikael stepped closer to Aziraphale, so that both angels were standing on the wide red Aten-disc in the temple courtyard. “What makes you think he’ll ever want to see you again?” 

It didn’t matter if it took Crowley a hundred years to fill out his discorporation paperwork in Hell. It didn’t matter if he could only share the next thousand years with Gabriel and Sandalphon. It didn’t matter if Crowley never spoke to him again. He silently chanted the reasons over and over to himself, willing himself to believe the mantra. 

Razikael was still speaking. “Work with me, Principality. Work with me, otherwise your serpent will be lost to you forever.” 

The other angel’s words gnawed at his heart. _Lost to you forever_. Forever was a long time. “He’ll come around,” said Aziraphale. 

“Don’t be a fool,” spat Razikael. “I saw the way you slew the serpent. I saw the way he looked at you when you betrayed him. He hates you, now. He hates you as surely as you hated him.” 

“I’ve never hated him,” insisted Aziraphale. 

“You did,” said Razikael. “It’s what angels do, Principality. You’ve toed the party line all your life. Well done. He will _never_ forgive you for what you’ve done.”

_He will never forgive you_. Razikael’s words echoed through Aziraphale’s mind. 

His acquaintance with the demon had been a rocky one. For every cordial afternoon in a Sumerian tavern, there was a vicious row ending in an unpleasant discorporation. He had done nothing to earn Crowley’s confidence over the last thousand years. 

And just as insistently, another phrase echoed through his mind, as clearly as if Crowley had been sitting right beside him, on a faraway island dotted with pomegranate trees. _I think I’d always forgive you. I don’t think I could _not_ forgive you_. 

He hadn’t believed the demon at the time. He still didn’t really. But he latched onto Crowley’s words like a rope in a storm. 

“You’re wrong,” said Aziraphale. He didn’t say it with as much conviction as he’d hoped, but it would have to be enough. He straightened up. “I can live with my sins,” he said. “And so should you.” 

Razikael’s expression turned cold. “You say it like it’s some small thing. I’ve lived my sins for twenty years,” she said. “And I would live with them a thousand more, but it will not bring Ophiel back. Only the ritual can do that.” 

“But that’s not true for me,” replied Aziraphale, “and it’s not true for anyone else around here.” 

“Anyone else?” repeated Razikael. “Why should you care about anyone else? Upstairs hasn’t helped you. Nobody’s helped you at all, except the demon.” 

It was true that Upstairs hadn’t helped Aziraphale at all. Gabriel had flatly refused to believe time travel was possible. Sandalphon had personally taken Aziraphale to Purgatory. 

But that didn’t mean Crowley had been the only one to help Aziraphale. Menet had delivered him Lilith’s scroll the very first Tuesday. Khapet’s surly company had helped keep Aziraphale from losing all his marbles during the time loops. The ship’s captain had mistaken the angel for Ma’at repeatedly, which ultimately gave Aziraphale enough confidence in Crowley’s plan to frighten off the guards. Even the assistant scribe overseer, Nofret, had helped, if only by keeping the Records Hall running smoothly every time Aziraphale had been absent without pharaonic leave. They all deserved a chance to _exist_ and learn and not get folded into a time loop they couldn’t feel or understand. 

“I haven’t done this alone,” he said. Razikael’s eyes narrowed. Aziraphale hastily continued speaking, so that she would not have the chance to assemble a mental list of his confederates. “But it doesn’t matter if I did. We’re - we’re angels. We _should_ care. We should be giving humans the chance to make mistakes, so they can learn from them, and change for the better. And we should give ourselves that chance, too. To change. To become better. And we can’t do that if you - if we use time travel to fix all our problems.” 

Razikael laughed, but there was a hollow tone to it. “None of us have changed since the Fall, Principality. We are immutable. We are the only constants of this cursed world, barring divine or demonic intervention.” Her gaze dropped to linger on the silver sword in her hand.

“No,” Aziraphale insisted. “We can change. We _have_ changed.” He’d still be stuck in the Tuesday afternoon, if he hadn’t changed. In his mind, Crowley whispered, _Insanity is trying the same thing over and over, expecting different results each time. _Aziraphale silenced the voice, and finished, “You don’t have to do this. There are other ways to live. You could atone for your sins in a different way -” 

“I can’t,” Razikael said. “This is the only way I can bring Ophiel back. And I’ll do it with or without you.” 

“Without me, I should think,” said Aziraphale. 

“Well. I’ve made it this far alone.” She took a deep breath. “I can make it a little further, for her sake.” 

“No,” said Aziraphale. “No further.” 

Razikael stared at him. “You know I can’t stop -” 

“- and it’s the same reason I can’t stop, either,” said Aziraphale. 

“Really?” said Razikael incredulously. “You think you can just walk up to your demon and apologize, and make everything right in the world?” 

Well, it was probably going to be more complicated than that, but Aziraphale wasn’t really up to thinking more than a few seconds ahead at the moment. “That’s got a better chance of success than the time ritual,” he said. “And it’s not just Crowley. It’s everyone else. It’s not _right_ to put them through a time loop they can’t feel or understand.” 

“Well, then,” said Razikael. “It appears that we have nothing more to speak about.” She flourished her twin swords, one bronze, one silvery. “Ready your weapon, Principality.”

Aziraphale lifted his spear, but his hands had gone numb and shaky. The plan he’d presented to Crowley had assumed that Razikael was a demon, who could be destroyed with Holy Water. Angels could only be destroyed by Hellfire or a divine sword, and he hadn’t the latter, and only a demon could conjure the former, and look what he’d done with the only demon within a thousand miles - 

He forced himself to breathe, and put Crowley out of his mind. He could discorporate the other angel. She wouldn’t be able to return to Earth without a body, and Gabriel wouldn’t give her one without the requisite paperwork. Razikael had to be at least twenty years behind on her paperwork. 

They squared off in the middle of Crowley’s temple garden. The tile of the Aten-disc beneath their feet stretched red for at least twenty feet around them, as if the ground were already soaked in blood. 

Aziraphale jabbed experimentally at Razikael, who parried the blow easily. 

The spear had been a good choice against a giant serpent, but was somewhat less efficient against a smaller, more agile opponent. Extra reach came at the cost of being unwieldy. Aziraphale did not even normally use a spear. 

The spear was also less durable. Aziraphale poured power into the weapon, just so it would not snap against Razikael’s sword. But he’d spent too much energy on the failed Holy Water ploy. Holy or not, water was _heavy_ \- 

Razikael spun around again, swords flashing gold and silver in the twilight. Aziraphale barely managed to dodge her flurry of blades in time. 

“When I discorporate you, I’ll start the ritual over again,” said the other angel. “You can’t stop me. I’ll find a way. I _have_ to.”

Akhenaten hadn’t been a particularly militaristic ruler, and as such, he’d rather let himself go in the fitness department. But he could tell by the way that Razikael moved that she’d taken every lesson from Heaven’s quartermaster to heart, and what’s more, she’d put those lessons to practice at every chance. Razikael wouldn’t have been out of place drilling in the ranks of the celestial army. Archangel Michael would be proud. All Aziraphale had was muscle memory and the only two lessons of his training he actually remembered. _Don’t drop your weapon. Don’t turn your back on the enemy._ Combined with his rapidly depleting reserves of energy, there was no possibility that he could prevail. 

Razikael drew first blood, with rapid slashes to Aziraphale’s left arm - first by her bronze sword, and then her silver. Aziraphale reeled as Mnemosyne pummeled him with memories. 

_The janitor leaned against the doorframe in one of the holding cells of Purgatory. He spoke with dark authority. “All the exits are sealed. There is no way out.” How had the janitor gotten there in the first place? Aziraphale searched the memory that Mnemosyne had brought forth, and found nothing but a disconcerting blankness. Suddenly, the angel was alone again, pounding on the door to the holding cell with incorporeal fists, cheeks wet with paradoxical and insubstantial tears. _

Aziraphale barely had the energy to heal his wounds as he exchanged more blows with Razikael. He tried to use the superior reach of his spear to fend off the Pharaoh, but it was too heavy in his hands. He felt like he was slashing through water and not air. Razikael darted in after his clumsy swing, and nicked his shin with Mnemosyne. 

_He was ranting and raving on the riverbank to anyone who would listen. Crowley clapped him on the shoulder, and suggested that they have lunch instead. “There’s a nice little tavern here, one foot in front of the other, angel.” He’d been so grateful that the demon hadn’t brushed him off right away. Why had it taken so long for him to actually thank Crowley for believing his story about the time loop? _

Aziraphale slipped on the smooth tile that marked Aten’s red sun-disc in the garden. He clung to his spear as he fell backward, the celestial weaponmaster’s words a mantra. _Don’t drop your weapon. Don’t turn your back on the enemy. _Razikael pounced, a feral snarl on her face. He rolled out of the way and struggled upright, still facing the other angel, but she caught him with a glancing blow to the shoulder. 

_A fleeting glimpse of Crowley’s eyes, nearly all pupil, as he kissed the demon’s knuckles. The sound of the demon’s gasp of surprise. The feel of the edges of a chair digging into his thighs. A blur of skin and touch and heat. _

Aziraphale staggered backwards and lit the pommel-end of his spear on fire. It would not hold the flame for long - it was just wood, after all - but wasn’t two ends of a weapon better than one? Flaming weapons were traditional in his line of work. Fire was effective at warding off hungry wildlife. But fire did nothing to prevent Razikael from scoring another shallow slash on his left arm - 

_He was shouting into a blue beam of light shining upwards from a summoning circle, surrounded by seven raggedy flames. Aziraphale swayed slightly, and his vision was blurred, but his pain was sharp and clear as he stood with his toes at the edge of the circle. He rambled incoherently about the organizational structure, and performance reviews, but what he really wanted to say was, “Why have you forsaken me?” _

Razikael’s khopesh clashed with Aziraphale’s spear. Sparks flew from his spear and ignited the shrubbery. The fire cast Razikael’s face in a demonic light as she drove Aziraphale steadily backwards around the edge of the Aten-disc, perilously close to the flaming flowerbeds. Aziraphale struggled to block her attacks. He hadn’t a hope to get any of his own blows in, and then one of Razikael’s attacks slipped through his defences again - 

_Crowley grinned at Aziraphale as he described the Memphis City Shuffle. “When they look on one side of the river, you’re on the other.” It was meant to be reassuring, but Aziraphale felt his stomach twist painfully instead. How could the demon approve a plan that would get him discorporated? “Didn’t know you had that in you, but then again, you’ve always been a clever angel,” continued Crowley _

A sudden, faint hope struck Aziraphale. He couldn’t win in a straight fight. But he didn’t need to win. He only needed to draw it out long enough to -

Another blow, parried. He nearly dropped his spear, consigning another flowerbed into flames at the edge of their makeshift battlefield. They burned hotter than well-watered garden plants had any right to, like fiery rays stretching out from the red-tiled sun. 

_Five_. 

The sky was darkening, leaving the flames as the only source of light. Razikael reached down and threw sand from the courtyard tile into Aziraphale’s face. 

He turned away instinctively to try and rub the grit out of his eyes with one hand. With the other, he thrust blindly in the other angel’s general direction. His attack hit empty air. Aziraphale overbalanced and stumbled, barely managing to stay on his feet. 

_Don’t drop your weapon. Don’t turn your back on the enemy. _

His eyes streamed with tears as he blinked dust out of them. Why had he ever thought his plan would work? Razikael had bested him at every turn. None of his plans had succeeded this Tuesday. What made this plan any different? He tried to attack Razikael again, this time with a sweep at her head. The other angel ducked under his attack and slashed his wounded leg again. Aziraphale fell onto one knee, bleeding profusely. 

_“Have some faith,” said Crowley. And the sheer irony of it was just too much. Why did he always say things like that? Words like that should sound like blasphemy coming out of a demon’s mouth, but Aziraphale saw the earnestness in his face, and felt the warmth of his offered hand, and at that moment, he had almost believed Crowley. He had almost believed him when he said, “I don’t think I could _not_ forgive you,” he had almost believed him when he said, “Bugger backup... you can face down one third-rate Pharaoh by yourself.” _

He hadn’t really believed Crowley then. He’d thought the demon had been trying to make him feel better, or to make him laugh. And maybe that had been partially the case. 

But now he understood why the demon had really said those things. 

It was because they were all _true_. 

Aziraphale grasped the spear tightly in both hands, and pushed himself upright. A bed of medicinal plants went up in flames where the fiery haft of the spear touched the ground - 

_Six. _

Razikael advanced on Aziraphale again, eyes locked on his face.

_Don’t drop your weapon. Don’t turn your back on the enemy. _

He turned around to retreat beyond the edge of the Aten-disc, but as he crossed the tiled boundary, he tripped over his own feet and tumbled forwards. He let go of his spear as he fell, and it skittered sideways to rest on the edge of the red circle, the end of it still aflame - 

_Seven._

He flipped over onto his back, staring up at the other angel. Razikael stood on the edge of the Aten-disc, looming over Aziraphale, a sword to his throat. The flames lit the planes of her face in harsh, flickering light. “You may live with your sins, but you can never atone for them. Send my regards to Gabriel, won’t you?” she said. 

Aziraphale spoke the Words in response. 

He hadn’t needed to draw out all the details to get a good connection - just a circle and the seven fires around it. 

Nothing happened. For a terrible, terrible moment, Aziraphale feared he had misjudged again -

And then he felt a low rumble in the ground. The other angel’s eyes widened, but she had no time to react. The summoning circle exploded with a roar into a bright blue column of light around Razikael. Dust blasted off the red Aten-disc on the ground of the courtyard. The Pharaoh rose a few feet off the ground and hung weightlessly in midair. Then, a woman-shaped figure was ripped upwards from Akhenaten’s body. Long, dark hair swirled around her as she flipped upside down, reaching for the Pharaoh. Her fingers touched Akhenaten’s face. Then, the inexorable upwards pull won out, and dragged her screaming into the sky.

The beam of light shattered into a thousand little sparks, and dropped Akhenaten into the dust. 

When the last blue spark had winked out, he approached the Pharaoh’s crumpled form, and rolled him over onto his side. The man looked ten years older than when Razikael had inhabited his body. His hair was white under his blue headdress, and his greyed skin felt like dry papyrus. Aziraphale checked for a pulse, and was surprised to find one. He awakened the Pharaoh.

“Who are you?” croaked the Pharaoh.

Azirpahale ignored that question. “What do you remember?” he asked the Pharaoh.

“The light of Aten,” said the Pharaoh, and he pressed a hand onto his own chest. “Within me...”

“And what day is it?” Aziraphale continued.

“I - I don’t know -” said Akhenaten. “I feel so empty -”

“Don’t worry,” Aziraphale assured the Pharaoh. “The circle’s only built for one.” He hadn’t been completely sure that, when he spoke the Words, the circle would take Razikael instead of Akhenaten, or that it wouldn’t send them both straight to Head Office. But he’d rationalized that Akhenaten had been the original inhabitant of his body, so odds were good that the circle would take Razikael Upstairs instead. 

The Pharaoh’s face crumpled. “But - the light of Aten -” 

It had been a nasty shock for Akhenaten, to be sure, but the man was borderline incoherent. Aziraphale wasn’t sure how long the Pharaoh had shared his body with the other angel, or how much of his reign had been Akhenaten, and how much had been Razikael. By the look of the shriveled-looking man in the sand, Razikael had been propping Akhenaten’s health up with her own power for quite some time now. 

“I’m sure you’ll find it again,” said Aziraphale. “Maybe in a few years.” The man had a decade left at most before his heart gave out. He took pity on the Pharaoh, and said, “Go home. Have a pleasant dream about the light of Aten, and nevermind what happened this Tuesday. Any of the Tuesdays, really.”

Aziraphale watched the Pharaoh toddle back towards the palace, all alone. History would not be kind to the poor man. 

As for Razikael - she had no body, and new security measures at Head Office meant she wouldn’t be able to escape to Earth without a body again. She’d have no choice but to plead her case to Gabriel. And the archangel would not look kindly on all of Razikael’s missed progress updates, expense reports, and performance reviews. She’d be taken straight to Purgatory for the next few thousand years, and at that point, Lilith would be beyond anyone’s reach but Death’s. 

His own spear had turned back into a brush-sharpening knife and burned to a crisp, but Razikael’s weapons lay forgotten in the dirt on the edge of the Aten-disc. The bronze khopesh lay beside Mnemosyne. It had reverted from being sword-shaped to being a silvery knife again. He picked it up.

Aziraphale felt a faint, momentary flicker of sentience in the knife’s handle. Then a memory struck him. 

_The first of many Tuesdays on the riverbank, amongst the papyrus reeds and the flock of ibises and the date trees. He was accusing Crowley of unduly influencing the Pharaoh’s religious views. “This - sun worship thing you’ve convinced him to do, you probably slithered up and hissed in his ear when he was dreaming -” _

_Crowley made a token protest of his innocence as he skipped a stone into the Nile. And all along it had been an _angel_ who’d cemented Akhenaten’s devotion to the light of Aten. Shame flushed through Aziraphale. He didn’t need to see this again - _

_And then, the sun dropped lower in the sky, and lush grassy banks replaced the tall clumps of papyrus, and a stepped pyramid - a ziggurat - rose up behind the flat-roofed mud-brick buildings. His vision wavered, and the scene shifted from Akhenaten to morning in the city of Uruk, on the Euphrates River. _

_Crowley was still there, but his hair had changed from a shaggy bowl-cut to the flowing red locks that suited him best. His expression, on the other hand, was one of annoyance. “What do you mean, you don’t want to reschedule dinner? I get that team-building went on for ten years longer than you thought it would, but still -” _

_In horror, Aziraphale felt his lips move of their own accord. “Head Office has warned that the enemy is not to be underestimated,” he said stiffly. “The nature of our work may bring us into contact with one another, but there’s no need to make a point of - well - making it a social occasion -”_

_“Didn’t do any harm before,” muttered Crowley. _

_“Head Office wouldn’t have brought it up if it wasn’t important,” said Aziraphale. _

_He didn’t want to hear what he had to say next, and he couldn’t shut his eyes or cover his ears, but then the sunlight dimmed to torchlight - _

_He was surrounded on all sides by dark timbers and the patter of raindrops. The smell of too many animals crammed into too small a space wafted through the floorboards from a lower deck. “The letter E,” said Crowley hopefully. He was perched on top of a barrel._

_“And that’s the hanged man’s left leg,” said Aziraphale, who had settled into a cushy sack of oats. _

_ “Blast it,” said Crowley. “What’s the word?” _

_“Oxymoron,” said the angel happily. _

_“What a rubbish word,” said the demon. _

_“It’s no less rubbish than - oh, what was the last one you picked? Phlegm. That one.” _

_“Ergh,” said Crowley. “Do you want to play I Spy instead?” _

_“No, thank you.” Aziraphale eyed the barrels that the demon was sitting on. According to Noah’s labelling, they were full of _APELS_. “Fancy a drink?” _

_“What’s the point?” moaned Crowley. “All Noah packed was water. Water, water everywhere, and the nearest drop of wine is at least five hundred miles away -” _

_“But you’re sitting on apples, which could become apple cider -” Aziraphale felt gratified as the demon’s face brightened. _

_“Oh, yeah, that’ll do it -” _

_The angel might have been content to remember what happened next, but then the scene blurred again, growing brighter and brighter - _

_Despite the oncoming rainclouds, the sun’s reflection off the sand was blinding. He could barely see the first two humans flee into the desert. There was a dry, rustling noise somewhere to the left. He turned towards the sound, and saw a huge black snake slithering up onto the garden wall. The snake morphed into something man-shaped, and looked at Aziraphale conspiratorially. “Well, that went over like a lead balloon,” he said. _

_That was the first time that he’d ever seen Crowley._

_Aziraphale felt the disconcerting impression of skepticism from the knife in his hand, and time flowed swiftly backwards again - _

_He was standing in a library. The first library, actually. Shelves towered to the ceiling, crammed full of blueprints and manuals for Creation, all softly lit with the golden light of morning. A half-finished model for a solar system fifty light-years away, sat on the floor, with tiny, perfect planets orbiting around a blue sun, on spindly telescoping silver arms. The whole contraption was as tall as he was, and several times his height in diameter. _

_He was poring over a primer on celestial mechanics so that he’d be able to get the eccentricities and inclinations of a tricky gas giant correct. Another angel was half-hidden under the mechanism. “I’m telling you, Aziraphale, the vectors are all upside-down. You’ve got to use the right-hand rule,” he called, as he tinkered just out of sight. _

_“I haven’t forgotten,” Aziraphale began, but then he felt a rumble in the ground. “What was that?” he asked sharply._

_“It’s just Lucifer and the boys, nothing to worry about,” said the other angel. “Not yet, anyways.” _

_“What do you mean?” said Aziraphale. _

_A pause before he heard an answer from underneath the model. “I’m not sure.” _

_But then he felt a schism open up in Creation._

_And outside, the chaos began. _

_“Oh, fuck, not now -” said the other angel. He started to pull himself out from under the contraption, but a corner of his tunic was snagged on the mechanism on the underside. “I thought there’d be more time. I really did.” _

_A roar had erupted outside, and screams. _

_Aziraphale took a step back in fear. “What’s going on?” he said. _

_“I’ve got to go,” said the other angel. “I can feel it -” He pulled himself free of the contraption with the sound of ripping fabric, and stood up unsteadily. _

_He had red hair, and golden eyes. That was nothing new. But then he unfolded his wings, and they were black. “I’m sorry,” he said shakily. “You’ll have to finish Tauri Draconis yourself -” _

Aziraphale dropped Mnemosyne. The vision vanished abruptly, and the knife clattered on the courtyard tile. 

The memory was all wrong. Tauri Draconis had been his own system, from start to finish. He hadn’t worked on it with anyone else. Mnemosyne had lied to him, and also to Razikael. It was a demonic artifact that had been designed to torture humans with their worst memories. It couldn’t be trusted. But it couldn’t be left out in the temple grounds either. 

With the last of his energy, Aziraphale conjured a silk handkerchief from the firmament. Silk was the best insulator of magic. He wrapped the knife in the hankerchief, careful not to let it touch his skin again. Then, he slipped it into his bag, along with Lilith’s scroll and the remains of his scribe’s tools. 

The flowerbeds around the red Aten-disc smouldered around him still, though with less intensity than during his fight with Razikael. He couldn’t bring those plants back. Aziraphale hadn’t the magical reserves anymore, and the fear and the rush of the battle was rapidly fading away. 

The angel staggered back to the steps of the temple sanctuary and sat down heavily, closing his eyes. He felt like he’d been on his feet for a hundred years. A crisp night breeze blew across his face, bringing the smell of the Nile and baking bread and maybe, _maybe_, the distant smell of pomegranates weighing down the boughs of trees on a not-so-distant island. Then he opened his eyes again and turned his face upwards towards the sky. Stars were beginning to emerge in the darkness overhead, for the first time in many, many days. Tauri Draconis was a faint glimmer between Adharis and Sirius. 

Aziraphale put his head between his knees, and began to weep at last.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whew! 
> 
> Next up is 4-5 chapters in which nearly every single loose end in the story is tied up. There may be a slight delay until the next chapter is posted, because I dumped the entire rest of the story on my betas.


	20. Wednesday

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aziraphale loots the Pharaoh's office and takes a nap.

It was Wednesday before Aziraphale managed to pull himself together. His tears had not yet run dry, but the tiny corner of his mind that kept the to-do’s and not-to-do’s straight was beginning to wake up again. 

A half-moon hung overhead. The temple complex was still deserted, but soon, priests of Aten would rouse themselves from slumber to prepare for the morning rituals. Then, Akhenaten would arrive at the crack of dawn to pray for the return of the soul who had shared his body for the last several years. And then the townsfolk might swarm the temple grounds, too, searching for gods incognito amongst them. 

Aziraphale had already tucked his wings into the indescribable plane of existence somewhere between his shoulderblades and his tunic. Nobody would mistake him as a local deity without the wings, and it would be easy to divert the attention of anybody who did realize that the former head scribe had more of a passing resemblance to the Lady of Justice. But regardless of whether or not he was recognized, they’d still _ talk _ about what happened. They’d talk about how Ma’at had come down to Earth and slain Apep personally. They’d talk about how the snake’s head had been rent from his shoulders and how its corpse had been incinerated on the spot. They’d talk about how Ma’at had reprimanded the Pharaoh for his heresy. Aziraphale didn’t feel like hearing a word of it for the next hundred years. 

Unfortunately, going full hermit was out of the question. There were loose ends to clean up. Renegade angels. Demonic scrolls. Belligerent bakers and unreliable messengers. 

He might spare himself a week of peace and quiet, though. 

Aziraphale forced himself to stand up, shaking slightly as the feeling returned to his legs. 

Then he began walking towards the palace. Every step sent pins and needles through his feet, and aches through wounds he had thought healed. He didn’t spare the energy to ease the pains, keeping the little power he had left in reserve instead. What if Razikael’s protections still lingered over her guards? What if they stopped him at the palace entrance? 

He approached the palace apprehensively. The sound of his approaching steps jolted the night shift of guards out of their reverie. They looked curiously at him, as if to wonder what business the Head Scribe might have with the Pharaoh at midnight. 

Aziraphale blinked at the guards, and they resumed nodding off, half-standing and half-leaning against their spears. 

The angel passed through the palace without a second glance. Finally, he approached the hideously gilded door of the Pharaoh’s study. Aziraphale nodded at the guards posted at the door. They nodded back with a sleepy look on their faces, and opened the door for him. 

Aziraphale closed the door behind him and slid the bolt closed. Then, he lit all the candles in the study with a gesture. 

He hadn’t managed to get a good look at Akhenaten’s study the previous times he’d visited, having been preoccupied by Razikael and the time loop. Now, he gazed at the shelves of papyrus that lined the walls from floor to ceiling. Some titles jumped out at him. _ Harvest summary, of the sixth year of the reign of Akhenaten. Memorandum to Burna-Buriash, King of Babylon. Paean to the Glory of the Aten. _Lilith’s scrolls would not lie amongst those texts. 

He spotted one of Lilith’s scrolls on the Pharaoh’s desk instead, along with a thick sheaf of notes. The desk was rather plain in contrast to the ornate chest beside it, inlaid with ivory palms and flowers. He opened the chest with shaking hands. Five more scrolls were nestled in a flaxen lining. Including the one already in his satchel, that totaled seven scrolls.

There was also a slim parchment volume at the bottom of the chest, bound with what appeared to be human skin. Aziraphale shuddered and lifted it delicately out with his fingertips. That would have been the book Razikael stole from that Daeva in Nubia. He opened it to see pages of double-columned text. The right columns were in the dizzying characters he now recognized as the demonic language, but the left columns were in Sumerian script. Out of curiosity, he read a passage from the Sumerian column. 

_ Gilgamesh wept bitterly for Enkidu. He wandered over the wilderness, and he cried, “How can I rest, how can I be at peace?” _

The book fell from his hands. It landed on the ground with a resounding thud. The angel looked over his shoulder guiltily, but nobody came bursting through the study door. He forced himself to keep breathing, and picked Daeva’s _ Epic of Gilgamesh _ up off the ground. If anything, the Nubian demon had decent taste in literature. Aziraphale might even finish reading the story one day. Just not today. Maybe not even next year. 

He carefully gathered up all the scrolls and the book, and put them in his bag.

Then he moved back to the sheaf of notes on top of the Pharaoh’s desk. The parchment sheets on the top were faded and torn. Aziraphale squinted at the first sheet on the stack. It was the start of an incident report to Head Office, in a format at least twenty years out of date. 

> _Incident Report _
> 
> _ Incident number (employee number, followed by years after creation, followed by number of incidents in year to date): _ _ 1056712-2647-050 _
> 
> _ Reported by: _ _ Razikael (Principality, Human Resources) _
> 
> _ Location of incident:_ _ Ankara, Anatolia _
> 
> _ Date of incident:_ _ July 21st, 2647 years after creation, at 10:25 in the morning (local time) _
> 
> _ Additional parties involved: _ _ Lilith (Demonic Agent) _
> 
> _ Witnesses: _ _ None _
> 
> _ Supporting exhibits: _ _ One (1) ritual knife, two (2) scrolls of demonic text. _
> 
> _ Incident description, including any events leading to or immediately following the incident: _ _ The Demonic Agent attempted to intrude upon an operation despite a previous caution (see incident number 1056712-2646-091). The Demonic Agent was dispatched with prejudice and Holy Water following a final verbal warning. Three (3) artifacts of note were recovered from the Demonic Agent’s body following neutralization. See two (2) scrolls of demonic text, attached. I have been unable to make heads or tails of any of it. Perhaps others will have better luck. One (1) knife is also attached, identified by the Demonic Agent as “Mnemosyne,” a device that shows the wielder their own memories. I have conducted preliminary testing on it, and have found the memories it brings forth are rife with lies and inconsistent with my own record of experience. _

Aziraphale flipped through the sheaf impatiently. The older sheets at the top were parchment, and the later ones were all papyrus. They were part translation, part calculation log, part journal, and wholly confirmation of Razikael’s story. He had hoped they were full of madness and contradiction. It would have been easier to believe that Mnemosyne showed its wielder nothing but lies. 

Unfortunately, the story in the logs reflected a clear tale in unsentimental prose, replete with cross-references and footnotes. Razikael had slain Lilith with Holy Water, acquiring two of her scrolls and the knife Mnemosyne from her body. She had then spent the next seven years struggling with the translation of the scrolls, tracking down four of the other scrolls, and falling behind on her celestial duties and reporting. 

In the eighth year after Lilith’s death, Razikael had ventured to Nubia to attempt securing Daeva’s assistance in the translation. She’d failed, barely escaping with demonic translation of the _ Epic of Gilgamesh _ and her life. Soon after, she succumbed to her wounds and took up residence in the Pharaoh’s body instead. That would have coincided with Akhenaten’s name change.

She spent the next twelve years struggling through the translation at every spare hour, and Akhenaten had been happy to oblige Razikael’s wishes, believing her to be an emissary from Aten. It had been to the neglect of his realm. No catastrophe had yet come to pass as a result of that neglect - the economy was fairly prosperous and the neighbouring kingdoms were peaceable enough, but Akhenaten was no Amenhotep the Third. 

When Razikael had deciphered just enough to carry out Lilith’s time ritual, she’d carried it out at the earliest opportunity, to buy herself enough time to finish the translation. 

Aziraphale paused at the last sheet of the other angel’s notes.

> _The last of _ _<strike> Ophiel</strike> _ _ Lilith’s scrolls is en route from Thebes. If I am fortunate then it will arrive before I start the ritual tomorrow. If it doesn’t, at least I will have time to finish the translation of the other scrolls. _
> 
> _ I fear I may not have the power to travel back in time far enough to reverse LIlith’s death if I wait any longer. Every day that passes is another I must later reverse. Her notes indicate that I should be able to repeat the past few hours using the most basic form of the ritual. I can learn to extend the reach of the ritual after I have completed more of the translation. All is in place to begin the ritual this evening. _
> 
> _ However, there is one thing that remains unclear to me. Why does Mnemosyne show some memories, but not others? Lilith’s notes describe that the knife was originally designed for torment of humans, by bringing their worst memories to the surface. Her own experience with Mnemosyne corroborates that - she describes her memories of the time before the Fall as “extremely painful,” with only scarce details of what they entail, only that my presence in them grew as she performed more research with the knife in the time ritual. _
> 
> _ I am not sure her assessment of her invention was accurate. If Mnemosyne brings back the most painful memories, why didn’t it show me the time that Gabriel chastised me at my last performance review, or the time that Dagon discorporated me with fire? The knife has shown me only memories of _ _ Lilith _ _ Ophiel in the last few years. Its focus on those memories is disconcerting. _
> 
> _ Akhenaten, on the other hand, claims the memories that Mnemosyne brought forth when I was wielding the knife were quite different in nature. He remembered the feel of his skin bathed in sunlight, the first time he had ever awoken before dawn to watch the sun rise, and the moment we began to share his body. I asked him if any of those memories were _ painful _ . He said that, on the contrary, they were some of the most wonderful moments of his life. Akhenaten also verified that everything Mnemosyne showed him had been completely true. I would like to collect more data, but I can’t exactly go around asking members of the imperial household to touch a knife of demonic origin. _
> 
> _ Why it chooses to show some memories and not others, I cannot say. But the point is moot. I long ago accepted that Mnemosyne showed truth, and not falsehood. _
> 
> _ All preparations are in place for Tuesday. _

_ Had _ Mnemosyne shown Aziraphale the truth? He’d let go of the knife so soon that he hadn’t been able to fully grasp the memory. 

Aziraphale pulled the knife out of his bag, and unwrapped it from its silk covering on the Pharaoh’s desk. Then, bracing himself, he laid his hand on the handle, and willed Mnemosyne to show him the Celestial Library again.

The knife stirred under his touch, and then a sunlit nook in a library with arched windows and floor-to-ceiling shelves unfolded before him - 

_ “I’m sorry,” said the former angel, who had not yet named himself Crowley. He wasn’t a demon yet. They hadn’t had any yet. But Aziraphale didn’t have to look at his blackened wings to understand that he was no longer an angel, either. “You’ll have to finish Tauri Draconis yourself -” _

_ “What do you mean?” said Aziraphale. Outside, there were more screams. “Where are you going?” He peered through the tall arched window of their little nook of the library, but couldn’t see anything but the elegantly manicured garden beyond. _

_ “I don’t know,” said the former angel. “I didn’t think it’d go like _ this _ .” _

_ “Like what?” demanded Aziraphale, turning away from the window. “Does this have something to do with Lucifer? I always knew he was trouble.” _

_ “Maybe,” said the former angel. Another shudder ran through him. “I have to go soon,” he said hurriedly. “Aziraphale. You’ll be alright.” He bit his lip, like he was trying to figure out what to say next. “Just remember to use the right-hand rule for vector multiplication -” _

_ “Nevermind the right-hand rule,” said Aziraphale. He didn’t understand what was going on, he didn’t even understand the right-hand rule half of the time. “You’re the expert on celestial mechanics. You can’t just leave me here with Tauri Draconis.” He pointed at the model, with its spindly arms and miniature planets making wobbly orbits around a glowing blue star. _

_ The former angel looked pained. “I have to,” he said. “I’m sorry.” _

_ “Then don’t go!” _

_ He shook his head. “I have to go,” he said. “We’ve finally gone too far. Can’t you feel it?” _

_ And Aziraphale could. He felt it the same way that he could feel the ground beneath his feet, or how the air fluttered around the edge of his wings, or the rapid beat of his heart in his chest. It was a cosmological truth. “Please stay,” he said. “I don’t think I can finish this without you.” _

_ “I don’t think you have much of a choice, there,” said the former angel. “I’m sorry. Things are changing. It’s what Lucifer wanted, but, y’know, be careful what you wish for -” He finished the sentence with a shrug. _

_ The ground rumbled again. _

_ Aziraphale shook his head. “I don’t understand,” he said. _

_ “If there’s too many of us talking about how we can make a better Plan, who’s left to get anything done?” The former angel’s mouth curved ruefully. “Though ironically, I think _ this _ is part of the Plan now, too. Don’t think too hard about it.” _

_ “Why not?” _

_ “Or you might have to leave, too.” _

_ “And what if I want to come with you?” _

_ “You don’t. It’s not who you are, Aziraphale. You’ve never cared about that change-and-freedom talk. You’d be miserable with Lucifer and the boys. You belong up _ here. _ ” _

_ Aziraphale opened his mouth to protest, but it was _ true _ . So instead, he said, “And it’s what _ you _ want?” _

_ “It’s -” the former angel swallowed hard. “Yes. I didn’t mean for it to happen, but it’s what _ has _ to happen. There’s no going back, now.” _

_ “Can you ever come back?” _

_ “I don’t think we’ll be _ allowed _ back, with the thoughts we’ve had -” _

_ Another rumble interrupted the former angel. It was louder than the last, and seemed to shake the library to its foundations in the firmament. _

_ Aziraphale’s eyes met the former angel’s. There wasn’t much time left. They could both feel it. “Will I ever see you again?” The words tumbled out all at once, a desperate rush. _

_ The former angel looked stricken. “I don’t know.” _

_ “Say you’ll try,” he insisted. _

_ “Aziraphale, I’ll -” _

_ Creation shifted again under his feet. Aziraphale was thrown backwards against a shelf, knocking books to the ground. The floor of the library opened up beneath the former angel’s feet. Fear crossed his face for the first time, and he flung open his wings to stay aloft. And he might have succeeded, if not for a gust of wind that seemed to blow straight down through the hole in the floor, ripping pages from open books and knocking him even further downwards. The model of Tauri Draconis wobbled precariously on its stand. The spindly arms holding planets in their orbits clinked against each other as they swayed. The former angel fell partway through the hole, clinging to the edge with his arms. _

_ The window to their nook in the library exploded inwards. Aziraphale opened his wings and wrapped them around his face, trying to protect himself from the maelstrom of broken glass and torn paper. _

_ He peered through his feathers, towards the hole in the floor. There was nothing below but endless sky and clouds beyond. The former angel clawed at the ground, trying to find purchase on the worn tiles of the library floor. There were bits of glass in his flesh - _

_ Aziraphale crawled toward the hole in the ground, wings still wrapped around himself. He reached towards the former angel. “Take my hand,” he called, over the roaring wind. Floor tiles crumbled and fell through the hole in the ground as he inched forward. _

_ “No - get back -” choked out the former angel. There was another great gust of wind, and he fell further downwards, until he was clinging to the edge of the hole with only his fingers. The wind tore at his red hair. Yet his golden eyes were decisive. “Aziraphale, you can’t -” _

_ Tauri Draconis crashed to the floor. Little planets broke off their spindly silver arms and bounced off, falling through the hole in the floor. _

_ “Take my hand,” said Aziraphale again. He could nearly touch the former angel’s hand, now, all he had to do was go a little further - _

_ Their eyes met. _

_ The former angel closed his eyes slowly. Then, he released his grip on the edge of the hole. _

_ He fell out of sight without so much as a sigh. _

_ The wind stopped. Aziraphale scrambled over to the opening to the ground. Thousands, millions of specks all fell downwards, growing smaller by the second. He couldn’t figure out which one had been the angel who’d been helping him in the library. _

_ Then the hole in the ground closed up as quickly as it had come. Broken glass flew back into the window frame. Pages torn loose rejoined their bindings. Tauri Draconis righted itself on the ground, the delicate mechanisms as good as new. There was only the horror in Aziraphale’s heart to indicate that anything was different. _

_ Why had he let go? Where had he gone? And why couldn’t he remember the former angel’s _ name _ ? _

_ The horror grew and grew until it threatened to envelop everything he knew - _

_ And then that feeling vanished without a trace, leaving Aziraphale with nothing a fleeting sense of puzzlement. He was sure he hadn’t been alone, just then, but he shed the feeling like snow from his shoulders. _

_ Now, how was he supposed to multiply vectors again? _

Aziraphale jerked his hand away from Mnemosyne with such force that he overbalanced and collapsed in the Pharaoh’s chair. His breaths came out as shallow gasps. It was all true, then. None of the other angels had ever spoken about the demons when they all walked the halls of Heaven together. Yet the angel who’d become Crowley had fit so neatly into the memory that he wondered how he’d forgotten in the first place. 

The new memory brought more questions than it answered. There were questions like _ how could I forget _ , _ why did Crowley let go _ , and _ what’s the right-hand rule? _ And then there were some questions that swam like shadows at the bottom of a murky lake, questions that Aziraphale couldn’t even begin to put into words. 

Mnemosyne lay silently on the Pharaoh’s desk, still nestled in its silken wrappings. The answers were somewhere in his memory, if he wanted to look for them. 

Aziraphale hovered his hand over the knife. 

But some of those answers did not belong to him. They belonged to Crowley, first. 

And Crowley had told Aziraphale that he didn’t remember much of the time before the Fall - so little of Heaven that he did not even recall his old name. But Crowley had also never given any indication that he regretted Falling. Nor had he ever shown any interest in his distant past, claiming that he found the present sufficiently interesting. 

It was bad enough that Aziraphale remembered a hundred Tuesdays that Crowley did not. The angel alone was privy to those memories. It put them on an uneven playing field. It had enabled his betrayal of the demon. What gave Aziraphale, then, the right to peek further into the demon’s forgotten past? 

In the window, he could still see Tauri Draconis winking fifty light-years away in the distance. But the sky was beginning to lighten to blue in the east. A rooster sang cacophonously through the twilight.

It was time to go. Aziraphale carefully wrapped Mnemosyne back into its silken sheath, packed Razikael’s notes into his satchel, and left the royal study. This was the first time he’d ever left the room on his two feet. He had a feeling it would also be the last. 

**∽⧖∼**

Aziraphale decided that a check-in on the other parties involved in the time loop could be postponed until he felt a bit steadier on his feet. He needed some rest and probably a great deal of alcohol to replenish his energies and piece together the tattered pieces of his sanity. Rest and alcohol could be attained in the undisturbed solitude at home. He could deal with everything else afterwards. 

It was, if not a _ good _ plan, still a _ plan _. 

Aziraphale was looking forward to executing it up until he turned the corner and saw a pile of smouldering remains instead of a house. Of _ course _ the Pharaoh’s guard had burned his house to the ground. They’d done it before during the time loop. They must have done it again when he’d been at the Records Hall. 

A small crowd was gathered among the ruins, though it was not yet dawn. They gave Aziraphale a wide berth, so as not to be associated with the unlucky homeowner. The angel could still hear them muttering to themselves.

“Who’s the Pharaoh think he is? Houses don’t grow on trees.” 

“His father would never have done this.” 

“It’s that Aten shit. Fried his brain.” 

“What’d you think he did to deserve it?” 

“Dunno, man. Maybe he’s been sweet-talking the Nubian ambassador. Or taking bribes. Scribes like bribes, right?”

That blackened pile of broken timbers was his bedroom-turned-library. That pile of scorched stone was the hearth he’d never used. Those ashes had been a shelf of his favourite editions of the _ Book of the Dead _. 

He felt the loss dully in the back of his skull, like a headache before a rainstorm. This might have been the worst part in any other year of his long existence. Today, it was merely the pickled date on top of a long, long Tuesday.

A judgemental _ quack _ at his feet jolted him out of his reverie. It was one of his neighbour’s fat, white ducks. It pecked at the strap of his sandal, and then quacked again, with a murderous glint in its eye. It was a malediction. 

His neighbour, a grubby middle-aged woman with ashes in her hair, shooed the duck away from Aziraphale. She glared at the angel as if he was one of the strange, scruffy men who loitered in public squares wearing long cloaks with nothing underneath. 

It was nearly dawn, and Aziraphale hadn’t slept in ages. That shouldn’t have bothered him. Sleep was not part of his daily routine. However, he did occasionally rest his face between the pages of a book. He hadn’t rested in over a hundred days. It had been back-to-back Tuesday afternoons without a breath in between. 

Un-burning a house and its chattels was no small miracle at the best of times. If the angel tried to reconstitute his house _ now _, he’d probably end up with a chimney sticking out of his own forehead. The house was a complete write-off for the foreseeable future. 

But if not his own home, where _ could _ he go? 

He couldn’t leave town. He needed to keep an eye on the Pharaoh and ensure that the end of his reign was, if not competent, then peaceable.

And he needed someplace safe. He didn’t feel quite up to bringing any wards up from scratch in his current condition. It wouldn’t do to sleep under a bridge and get stabbed to death by a territorial hobo. 

Aziraphale realized there was only one place in the entire city of Akhetaten that fit the bill. 

**∽⧗∼**

Somewhere in the posh south suburb, Aziraphale stood in front of a pale, stone-faced house, surrounded by a high stone wall. It looked exactly the same as all the other pale stone-faced houses around it. However, those other houses contained the families of various overseers, priests, and high-ranking government officials who had been unceremoniously uprooted from Thebes to attend court at the new capital of Akhetaten. This house, on the other hand, had a nasty ward on the threshold against kindhearted neighbourly overtures, used camel salesmen, and door-to-door biscuit girls. Aziraphale bent down at the front door to inspect the runes. They were only a few sigils away from chickenscratch, but did not actually seem to forbid Aziraphale from entering. 

The angel closed his eyes and placed a hand on the doorknob. Locusts did not swarm forth from the keyhole. The metal did not suddenly heat up and burn his palm.

He gently pulled the door open. The door swung open easily, as if he had been the homeowner himself. 

Crowley‘s house was sparsely furnished. There was a wide hallway that spanned the entire length of the house, leading the way to the garden beyond. Doors on the right led to a bedroom, and an office. On the left was a combined living room and kitchen. The living room was enormous, but boasted more sculpture than seating. The kitchen was pristine: Aziraphale doubted the demon had ever cooked anything in his life. A similarly unused washroom was tucked at the back of the house. Aziraphale assumed it was a washroom from the room’s size, but he was sure it was unused because most of the room was occupied by a life-sized statue of a goat, in the Sumerian style. 

In the kitchen, he spotted a cellar door. He lifted the wooden hatch with some effort. Below was darkness. Aziraphale snapped his fingers, illuminating the cellar and the rungs of the ladder. It’d be a shame to make it this far and break his neck, falling into the demon’s larder. 

There, neatly arranged in rows by age and region, was Crowley’s stash of wine. The demon would have had to import them all, from Thebes or Memphis, or even Tanis, with no small effort. 

Aziraphale hovered his hand over the closest jug, and hesitated. He’d already lied to Crowleys face, cut off Crowley’s head, and broken into Crowley’s house. Drinking the demon’s wine was hardly going to make matters worse. A laugh bubbled to the surface, and it echoed through the cellar, bouncing around and around until the angel was surrounded by a mocking choir of his own devising. 

But when the echoes faded away, he left the wine where it was. It wouldn’t be _ proper _ to drink Crowley’s supply. In fact, the proper thing to do when faced with temptation was to remove oneself from it. Aziraphale looked longingly at Crowley’s wine stash before ascending the ladder gingerly. Then, he closed the cellar door, and for good measure, dragged a very modern sculptural interpretation of the god Anubis over the hatch. “Be a good fellow and guard the gates of the underworld, won’t you?” he huffed. 

Anubis didn’t answer. 

The bedroom was behind him, but the angel remembered the last door, at the end of the hallway. Best to make sure there were no skeletons in that closet, before turning down for the night. 

Aziraphale gasped when he opened the door on the small back garden. 

The greenery was at least twice as lush as any other garden in Egypt. The light of dawn painted the leaves a burnished gold. The plants rustled curiously as he set a tentative foot on the garden path. Aziraphale wondered if the tamarisk trees might drop their limbs upon his head, or if the grapevines on the fence might throttle him right there and then, but they merely extended welcoming leaves and fronds, trying to touch his arms. 

In the central clearing of the garden was a little apple tree, no taller than he was. It would have been the first and only apple tree in all of Egypt - still too young have borne fruit yet, but Aziraphale could tell from the traces of magic on the trunk and the branches that Crowley had given it his best shot regardless.

Blessing crops and newborn babies was one of the things that came more easily to angels than demons. It wouldn’t hurt for Aziraphale to try his luck, too. He touched the trunk of the little tree, trying to persuade it to fruit. 

The tree resisted. Where were its brethren? Making apples wasn’t a one-tree affair. Had he ever heard of the birds, or more importantly, the bees? 

“Just this once,” said Aziraphale. 

There was a rustle of leaves that sounded like, _ well, alright, but only because you asked nicely _. 

A bud grew from a twig on the lowest branches of the tree. Aziraphale held his breath as it swelled and unfurled into a perfect, pale-pink blossom. Then, just as quickly, the petals withered, and a fruit swelled up from the corpse of the flower, immaculate and red, except where the sun had touched it. That spot was golden, as if it had been gilded. 

Aziraphale touched the apple. The gold remained even as he turned the apple away from the sun. He whispered once more. The fruit would linger in perfect ripeness until it was picked. 

“Thank you,” he said to the tree. 

The tree ignored him. 

Aziraphale’s eyelids felt heavy. He hadn’t slept in years - not when there were books to file, harvest records to compile, and demons to thwart. But his house had just been burnt to the ground along with all the books in it. He’d resigned as scribe overseer. And there weren’t any demons in nearly a thousand miles. 

The angel walked back into the house, as if he was sleepwalking. Back down the hallway. Through the last door on the left. 

He found himself staring at Crowley’s bed. Legs were carved as snakes supported a thick flaxen mattress, spread with crisp linen sheets and heaped high with pillows. 

He shouldn’t really sleep there. What if Crowley came back and found him? 

The rest of him, though, was too exhausted to care. If Aziraphale woke up with a furious demon in his face, he’d gladly explain his trespass then. But that was an unlikely possibility. It’d take Crowley a while to fill out Downstairs’ recorporation paperwork, and even longer before he returned to Akhetaten. 

The angel slid his sandals off his feet and lay down on the bed, not even bothering to pull the sheets over himself. He sank deep into the mattress. 

Daylight was streamed through the window, but sleep overcame him quickly. 

He dreamed vividly, and in two colours only: red and gold.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to my beta SilchasRuin for helping with the timeline of the morning, and to GraphiteGirl for making me revise the section I've been calling the "Unnecessary Flashback."
> 
> Can't take all the credit for the last sentence of this chapter, either. That's pretty much verbatim from Eoin Colfer's book _Airman_.


	21. The Forty-Year Interlude

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aziraphale finishes reading a book.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My apologies to Tolkien and N.K. Sanders, again. Also, happy Groundhog Day!

Aziraphale awoke in a cocoon of perfect warmth and comfort, ruined only by the beam of sunlight shining directly in his face. 

He rolled onto his side to shade his eyes, sinking his face into a delightful feather-stuffed pillow. 

A _pillow_. 

The angel didn’t own any pillows. 

He bolted upright in the unfamiliar bed. The delightfully fluffy pillows went flying. His limbs tangled in the linen sheets, and he realized he didn’t own any _sheets_ either, nor did he own the statue of a giant cat staring directly into his face from across the room - 

_Oh_._ Right. _

The angel stopped flailing and hauled himself out of the demon’s bed. “Crowley?” he called. 

There was no response, which was not unexpected. Crowley would need time to doctor his incident report to account for his discorporation in a more demonically-palatable light. Aziraphale had every confidence that Crowley would be able to come up on top. It had been two angels against one demon. Nobody would blame Crowley for coming out the worse for the encounter. In fact, there was an alternative version of events in there, where two angels had lured Crowley into a trap, and it had been through some quick thinking that he’d been able to take one of those angels down with him.

Aziraphale smoothed the linen sheets back over the bed, and plumped the pillows. When he was satisfied with the arrangement, he went to open the front door. 

Beyond was the street, flooded with sunshine. It was a quiet morning, full of possibility. A farmer led a cow down the dirt road towards the market, even as it tugged on its halter to stare longingly at the scraggly bushes that lined the street. A gaggle of children sprinted past him towards the river, with the taller children at the head of the pack, and smaller ones trailing at the rear. 

Aziraphale took a deep breath, and crossed the threshold. 

One of the shrubs on the side of the street burst into fire. Gabriel’s voice began to emanate from the bush, overlaid with the angry pop and crackle of the flames. “Aziraphale. I’ve been trying to get a hold of you all week. Where the hell have you been?” 

“Er,” said Aziraphale. His eyes darted across the street. The farmer and his cow had turned the corner, and the children were long gone. 

“A rogue Principality came out of the woodwork last week. Barged into my office, asking for a new body. Wouldn’t say where she’d been, or what she’d been doing. Or where her last ten years of paperwork went,” continued the bush, sounding more and more aggrieved. 

“Oh,” said Aziraphale. “Did she happen to mention anything about what happened to her last body?” 

“Claims you discorporated her,” said Gabriel. His voice grew low, and the bush contracted surreptitiously. “Is that true?” 

“Erm. Yes,” said Aziraphale. 

A little fireball shot out of the burning bush and singed the hem of Aziraphale’s tunic. “I want your incident report on my desk _tomorrow_,” roared Gabriel. “Is that clear?” 

“Perfectly clear,” said Aziraphale. “I’ll get right on that.”

The flames lowered a tad in mollification. “Good,” said Gabriel. 

Aziraphale breathed a sigh of relief, but then the entire bush exploded in a small mushroom cloud. The angel flung his arms around his head as scorched twigs whizzed past him like shrapnel. 

There was nothing left of the bush but a blackened mark on the side of the street. Aziraphale’s morning, so full of potential, had been reduced to report-writing. 

The angel looked longingly at the neighbourhood around him, and stepped back into Crowley’s house.

The demon had an office with a throne-like chair at a desk more ornate than the Pharaoh’s. Aziraphale eased himself into the seat so that the vast emptiness of the tabletop stretched out before him. Sunlight streamed through a generous window. 

Somewhere in that cursed Tuesday afternoon was a plausible incident report without a single mention of time travel or demonic artifacts. He could say that he’d suspected the Pharaoh had become possessed after the sudden emergence of his fervour for sun-worship, several years ago. He could say that his suspicions had been confirmed when he’d confronted the Pharaoh about his religious inclinations and Razikael had come to the forefront to protect her borrowed corporation. And he could say that, at the end of it all, they’d come to blows, and Aziraphale had no choice but to exorcise Razikael from the Pharaoh’s body. 

Yes. Aziraphale could work with a narrative like that. It was more plausible, and far, far safer than the true version of events. 

He cast his gaze around the demon’s study, looking for pens or papyrus, but coming up short. So instead Aziraphale rummaged through his satchel, looking for his favourite reed brush and a roll of spare papyrus. His fingers bumped against the scrolls he’d found in Akhenaten’s study, and he pushed them aside in his blind, impatient search. 

At last, Aziraphale conceded victory to the clutter, and upended the entire bag onto Crowley’s desk. Lilith’s scrolls spilled out, followed by Mnemosyne, and a tatty bit of papyrus. Aziraphale shook his bag again. His second-favourite reed brush clattered out, followed by Daeva’s version of the _Epic of Gilgamesh_, bound in human skin. 

Right. Now he could start writing. He pushed Lilith’s scrolls and Mnemosyne back into his bag, but paused at the book. 

Aziraphale never left a story unfinished. Not even the preachy _Instructions of Shuruppak,_ nor the propagandistic _Epic of Tukulti-Ninurta_. He’d trudged through those, word by word, if only so he could thoroughly critique them when the time came. In contrast, the _Epic of Gilgamesh_ was neither preachy nor propagandistic. 

It wouldn’t take too long to write the incident report. 

The angel touched the book’s cover, transforming the human skin to calfskin. Then he opened it. 

> _Cried Gilgamesh, “My friend is dead. I have wept for him, in the hopes he might return, but Death will not release him. There is nothing left for me here.” Thus Gilgamesh travelled through the wilderness, he wandered over the grasslands. He followed the secret paths through the mountains, to the edge of the sea where the stars swam freely between land and sky. There beside the stars lived Utnapishtim. He was called the Faraway, for he alone among men had been granted everlasting life... _

**∽⧖∼**

It was a Tuesday night, devoid of cloud and wind. The moon was full and the river was nearly mirror-like, so the sky and the Nile appeared as a single dark, sparkling expanse stretching from before Aziraphale’s feet to over his head. 

The angel bent down and plucked a small, flat stone from the bank, and then threw it at the water. It skipped eight times, shattering the moon’s reflection. _A personal record_, he thought morosely. He ought to celebrate. Perhaps by downing a few mugs of beer at the tavern. He’d been doing that rather frequently of late, in the absence of any new assignments from Head Office. Gabriel must still have been reviewing his incident report. 

There was a rustle of grass behind him. Aziraphale turned around hopefully. 

It was Menet and Khapet. The angel smothered a twinge of disappointment with guilt.

“Never got the chance to thank you for saving my skin,” said Menet. 

“You’re welcome,” said Aziraphale. 

The three of them stood awkwardly on the riverbank for a moment, the silence broken only by the rustle of reeds and the chirp of lecherous crickets. Khapet shifted from foot to foot, and Menet fiddled with the belt of his kilt. 

Khapet cleared his throat. “Well. We ought to buy you a drink for your trouble,” he said. 

“I really shouldn’t,” said Aziraphale, half-turning back to the river. 

“Come on, it’s not like you’ve been doing anything else,” said Menet. 

“I’m waiting for someone,” said Aziraphale. 

Menet glanced up and down the riverbank. “You’ve been here since lunchtime. I don’t think they’re coming,” he said apologetically. 

“Have you been spying on me?” said Aziraphale. 

“Well, you don’t exactly blend in with the crocodiles,” said Khapet. He put a tentative hand on Aziraphale’s shoulder. “Come on. You can come back tomorrow. Or next week.”

“Next week,” repeated Aziraphale. He glanced up and down the riverbank again, seeing only a clump of slumbering ibises, beaks tucked into their feathers. “Alright,” he said. 

The messenger’s mouth split into a victorious smile. “Well, come on, scribe,” he said. 

“I’m not a scribe anymore,” said Aziraphale. 

“Fired?” said Menet, nodding sympathetically. 

“No, I resigned,” said Aziraphale. 

“Good choice,” said the messenger. “You must have loads of free time, now.” 

“For now. A man’s gotta eat eventually,” said Khapet, shoving his brother playfully sideways. Menet recovered from the push and shoved his brother back, but Khapet was bigger, and more difficult to push around. The baker deflected Menet’s shove and caught the messenger under a meaty arm. With his other hand, he rubbed his knuckles into Menet’s shorn head, releasing him only when the younger brother yelped with indignation. “Anyhow. If you’re looking for a job, the baker’s guild is looking for a bookkeeper. Can’t trust the scribes at the Records Hall not to overtax us.” 

“I had something else in mind,” said Aziraphale.

“Shame. Did the merchant’s guild get to you first?” said Khapet. “Uppity bastards, the lot of ‘em.” 

There was no malice at all in the baker’s words. Menet sniggered, and a smile twitched at the edge of the angel’s mouth. It was a rather nice night, all things considered. The sky was clear. Up above was Tauri Draconis, but to its side was Sirius, the brightest of all stars, and Betelgeuse, proud and gold, and still others he could name, all scattered silver across the sky and the river. “I’ve got a mind to join the Pharaoh’s court. Properly, this time,” said Aziraphale. 

“I thought you were better than that,” said the messenger, narrowing his eyes in faux-mockery. 

“I’m not,” said Aziraphale modestly. “But the Pharaoh could use some guidance in his governance. After all, he is in a delicate way -” 

“Pregnant?” scoffed Khapet. 

“No, just delicate -” 

“His Majesty has always been a little -” Menet lifted a finger to circle it around his ear. 

“There’s ways to get rich that don’t involve sucking up to a heretic,” agreed Khapet. “Let him fall on his ass. It’s not your job to keep him out of the muck.” 

And the baker was technically right. Aziraphale’s job was to carry out the orders sent down from Heaven, and to maneuver pieces on Earth to suit the Great Plan. But he remembered how lost the Pharaoh had seemed after Razikael had left his body, and how old and frail he’d been, and Aziraphale felt a little swoop of pity in his stomach. “That’s all the more reason that I should be there,” said the angel. “If he falls apart, then the kingdom falls apart, and then it’ll be the Hittites riding in to pick up the pieces.”

“Don’t sound so noble about it,” grumbled Khapet.

“I’m sorry,” said Aziraphale. “I can’t help it.” He changed the topic before anybody could question his motives again. “What have you been doing lately?” 

“We went fishing today,” said Khapet. “Caught a bunch of moonfish.” 

“But the crocodile almost caught us!” said Menet. 

“Ah, we fought him off,” said Khapet. “You should have seen us.” The baker grasped an imaginary weapon in his hands - a staff, perhaps. “We were having a spot of lunch on land, and he must've thought he could get a bite to eat too. Luckily, the oars were nearby, so -” Khapet mimed bludgeoning an invisible foe to death. Menet joined in, making pathetic growling noises that only nominally resembled the battle-cries of a crocodile. 

“Good thing you showed him,” said Aziraphale faintly. Then he steeled himself. He would not have the two brothers _die_ a mere month after he’d saved them from the Pharaoh’s guards. He slung his arms around the two of them as a pretense. “So, tavern?” he asked. And he shaped ward after ward around the brothers. Wards against getting eaten by apex predators. Wards against getting stabbed to death by vagrants. Wards against falling into puddles and breaking their necks. 

“Yeah. Tavern,” agreed Menet. “To celebrate - er -” 

“To celebrate not dying,” said Aziraphale firmly. 

Khapet looked puzzled at the choice of wording. 

“First round’s on me,” continued Aziraphale, and Khapet’s expression grew from puzzled to resolute. 

“Oh, no, first round’s on _me_ for saving _his_ ass,” insisted the baker. 

“First round’s on _me_, because I beat the crocodile to death,” said Menet. 

“It didn’t die! It just ran away!” 

“To die, undoubtedly,” said Aziraphale soothingly. 

Khapet wriggled his way out from under Aziraphale’s arm. “Don’t you take his side,” he warned the angel. 

“I’m sorry,” said Aziraphale. “How about I buy the first round as an apology?” 

“Yes. Wait. No. I see what you’re doing.” The baker began sprinting towards the tavern. “Eat dirt, scribe,” he shouted behind him. 

“Where’re you going?” called Menet. And he wrestled himself free of Aziraphale’s arm and began running after his brother as well. 

“You can’t buy the first round if I get there first,” huffed Khapet. 

“If!” said Menet, and he scrambled down the dirt road. When he caught up with Khapet, he leaped on his back, nearly sending Khapet tumbling down the bank. But the baker was able to shake Menet off before he could get a good grasp. 

“No cheating,” said Khapet, mirth in his voice. 

“It’s not cheating,” said Menet, trying and failing to shove Khapet off the path. “It’s just - _urmph_ \- strategy - not that you’d know anything about _strategy_ -” 

“We’ll see about that,” said Khapet. 

The two brothers jostled elbows and traded barbs as they ran towards the tavern, edges silvered in the moonlight. 

**∽⧗∼**

> _Utnapishtim the Faraway looked at Gilgamesh and said, “What is your name, you who come here wearing the skins of beasts, with your cheeks starved and your face drawn? Why have you made this journey to the edge of the sea?” _
> 
> _He replied, “Gilgamesh is my name. I am from Uruk, from the house of Anu.” _

**∽⧖∼**

Aziraphale strode purposely towards the palace, wearing a freshly-pressed tunic. Gold bracelets fresh off a merchant’s barge adorned his wrists. He’d even transfigured his customary strand of amethysts to a beaded collar with an entire rainbow of stones.

Horses and camels were tied to trees near the palace gates, in front of a communal water-trough. Some of them belonged to petitioners, and other to courtiers. A single donkey stood with them, chewing thoughtfully on his tether. 

As Aziraphale passed the animals, the donkey broke free and trotted to block his path. The angel tried to walk around the donkey, but it matched his movements, first to the left, and then to the right. The fetid smell of donkey filled the angel’s nose as the beast breathed aggressively in the angel’s direction. 

“I read your report,” it said, in Gabriel’s voice. “Very thorough.” 

“Thank you,” said Aziraphale, waiting for the other shoe to drop. 

“I’d love to discuss it with you in person,” said the archangel. It was disconcerting how the donkey spoke, barely moving its lips. 

“Er,” said Aziraphale. “Could it wait, please?” 

“Wait for what?” said Gabriel, in a dangerous tone. Spittle flew from the donkey's mouth, staining Aziraphale's tunic. 

“Erm. Egypt’s in a bit of a pickle, with the Pharaoh being particularly unstable nowadays. I’ve got to speak with him today about taking a more active role in the day-to-day administration of the region.” 

“Really,” said the donkey.

“Yes,” said Aziraphale quickly. “It can’t wait. The demon Daeva’s in the south, and the Hittites are in the north. We’ve got to be careful that we don’t jump out of the frying-pan and into the fire, especially with the Plan for the chosen people...” 

The donkey stared at Aziraphale with malevolent little eyes before speaking again. “Right. Come up when things are settled down, then, won’t you?” 

“Of course. As soon as I can.” 

“As soon as you can,” said Gabriel. 

The intensity passed out of the donkey’s eyes, replaced by confusion. It brayed rudely at the angel. Then the donkey trotted back to the communal water-trough, broken tether trailing behind it.

Aziraphale collected himself, smoothing his tunic and fiddling with his necklace self-consciously. He shouldn’t be worried. It was a good plan that secured himself a place at court with a minimum of future miracles. He was qualified for the position - more qualified than he was as a scribe, anyway. 

There was no point in waiting any longer. He gathered all his confidence, and walked right into the throne room. Guards moved to bar his path, and crowds of petitioners and courtiers swirled chaotically, but they all parted before him, like fish before a shark. 

The Pharaoh was in a poorly way, slumped in his throne and staring out the window. The court’s eyes were fixed warily on the angel.

He returned their gazes with a beaming smile. “I hear you’re in need of a new astronomer?” said Aziraphale.

“We are not,” said the Vizier, pushing his way through the Pharaoh’s entourage to stand in front of Akhenaten. Aziraphale noted with distaste that he was still wearing the protective sun-disc amulet that Razikael had created for the royal guard. 

“Yes,” said the angel, letting divinity roll through his words like honey. There was barely enough to influence anyone. But Akhenaten jerked upright in his throne. How could he not recognize the trace of power from the time he’d spent with Razikael. Aziraphale fixed his eyes on Akhenaten’s face. “A bit of divine guidance would not go amiss.” 

“Did the Aten send you?” said Akhenaten hoarsely, eyes bright in his sunken sockets. 

“The Almighty works in mysterious ways,” said Aziraphale. 

“You can’t be serious!” said the Vizier. “He was a scribe last month. How could he possibly qualified to read the stars?” 

Aziraphale turned his gaze to the Vizier, and adopted a look of what he hoped was paternal concern. “Oh, dear boy,” he said, dropping his voice to a whisper. “I fear you’ve incurred the wrath of the gods.” The air thickened with portent.

The crowd began to murmur. It’d been a while since they’d had a good show of divine fury. Not since the Apep was slain right in the city temple. 

“So it’s_ gods _now?” said the Vizier scathingly. 

“The stars portended that a powerful man would fall prey to consumption,” said Aziraphale, in a wavering tone. “Yet I did not understand their omens until I lay eyes on your face.” 

“You can’t be serious!” said the Vizier. “We’ve met before -” 

Aziraphale pointed dramatically at the Vizier. “Stay back, lest you infect us all,” he said. 

The crowd stepped back from the Vizier. He turned to the crowd. “He’s a charlatan -” 

A rumble of thunder rolled through the throne room, drowning out the Vizier’s words. A woman in the crowd shrieked and fainted. 

“The only way you can escape your fate,” called Aziraphale, “is to make a great offering at the temple.” 

“Alright! I’ll go!” said the Vizier, with false bravado. He was pale and shaking. 

“See that you do,” said Aziraphale ominously, but the Vizier was already halfway out of the throne room. 

The angel released his grasp on the storm, and the air grew suddenly less heavy.

The crowed rustled and quieted, but the Pharaoh’s gaze had not wavered from Aziraphale the entire time. 

“So,” said the angel cheerily. The temple would make good use of the Vizier’s offering, to feed and clothe the poor. 

“You’re hired,” said the Pharaoh. “When can you start?” 

“I’ve already begun,” said Aziraphale mysteriously. He hadn’t actually, but it seemed a suitably vague and pithy response. 

The crowd murmured in approval. 

**∽⧗∼**

> _Then Utnapishtim said to him, “If you are Gilgamesh, why are your cheeks so starved and your face drawn? Why is despair in your heart? Why is your face burned with heat and cold?” _
> 
> _Gilgamesh said to him, “Why should not by cheeks be starved and my face drawn? My friend has passed through the gates of Death. His fate lies heavy upon me. How can I be silent? How can I rest? So I have crossed the wilderness, I have wandered through the grasslands. I have followed the secret paths under the mountains to the edge of the sea. And at last I have come to you, Utnapishtim, for the secret of eternal life, so that man shall no longer be beholden to the tyranny of Death.” _
> 
> _And Utnapishtim replied, “There is no permanence. Do we build a house to stand forever? Does the flood-time of rivers endure? I have eternal life only because the gods favour me.”_
> 
> _And Gilgamesh asked, “And how did you win their favour?” _
> 
> _Utnapishtim told Gilgamesh, “Long ago, not soon after the birth of the world, the gods sent a flood to destroy mankind. I alone survived, for I obeyed the gods and built a ship to bear me until the waters receded. For my faith, I was thus rewarded with eternal life.” _

**∽⧖∼**

“Shame about the Pharaoh,” said Menet, watching the funeral procession wind through the city. “Consumption and all.” The head priest led the procession. He was followed by cattle that pulled the Pharaoh’s body in an ornate sledge, emblazoned with the Aten-disc. Akhenaten’s family and his closest advisors came next - the Vizier, the Pharaoh’s wives, and his young son and daughter. Then behind them were more sledges, laden with Akhenaten’s worldly goods, and a small army of professional mourners, dressed in pale blue. 

“He’s not gonna be missed,” said Khapet. 

“No need to be so harsh,” said Aziraphale. He was not in the funeral procession because - well - it was one thing to practice meteorology and astronomy at the Pharaoh’s court, and another to keep a straight face while the mourners wailed and beat their breasts and tore at their clothes and hair with theatrical enthusiasm. 

The last years of Akhenaten’s reign had been surprisingly peaceable. Aziraphale kept a close eye on the court, making vague predictions about how the alignment of the stars might affect the next harvest, or how a mighty storm would roll in next Thursday, or _by the way the Hittites are stirring again, ought the border patrols be increased?_ The Pharaoh and his court hung onto his every word. The court, because Aziraphale had become a half-decent meteorologist and his predictions were usually correct. And the Pharaoh, because Akhenaten could sense, consciously or not, that Aziraphale had something in common with the soul who had inhabited his body for a full decade. 

Well, now Akhenaten was going up to Heaven, or more likely, Purgatory. At least he’d be bathed in the eternal light of Heaven while waiting for the birth of the Messiah to redeem all souls or - well, _something_. Would a man like Akhenaten go insane waiting that long? 

“Well, he was old enough to go,” said Khapet. 

“The man was only forty-four!” said Aziraphale. 

“That’s more than most of us get,” said Menet. 

Aziraphale discreetly wrapped more wards around the two brothers - these ones against sickness, against old age, against dementia. They drew on his power like little siphons, but he ignored their pull. 

“How old are you?” said Khapet, nudging the angel. 

Aziraphale fumbled for an answer. How old was he _supposed_ to look? “Erm,” he said. “Fifty?” 

Menet guffawed. “Pull the other one, it’s got bells on it.” 

“Pardon me?” 

“Nobody lives to fifty around here,” explained Menet. 

“Well, nobody _normal_,” said Khapet, now looking at the angel thoughtfully. 

“Well, it’s alright if you don’t want to tell us how old you _really_ are,” said Menet. “Want to come down to the tavern and drink to the Pharaoh’s memory, instead?” 

“Only if Aziraphale buys the first round,” said Khapet. He shouldered the angel. “What say you, eh?” 

“Maybe later,” said the angel. “I’ve got to go down to the river and take care of something first.” 

The two brothers exchanged a look. 

“The river, again?” said Menet. “You know that nothing’s -” 

Khapet shook his head at his brother, and Menet clammed up. 

“We’ll see you later, then,” said the baker, with a touch of pity in his voice. 

The waves lapped patiently at the riverbank. 

Aziraphale knew better than to expect Crowley to show up at the riverbank anytime soon. But in one of his pockets he had a letter he'd written to the demon. _Dear Crowley, it’s been busy in Akhetaten, with the Pharaoh’s death. His son, the heir, is all of ten years old. __Perhaps you’ll come up and meet the lad? Sincerely, Aziraphale. _

A seagull approached. That was a good sign. Sometimes he had to settle for ibises or passenger pigeons, which did not fly as far or as fast. “Could you take a message to someone for me?” he asked the seagull. “To _Crowley, Serpent of Eden_. You’ll know when you find him.” 

The birds he employed always came back with ruffled feathers and an ornery glint in their eyes. His unopened letters would be grasped in their talons, with _Return to Sender_ seared into the front. 

**∽⧗∼**

> _Said Utnapishtim, “As for you, Gilgamesh, who will assemble the gods for your sake, so you can gain their fickle favour? But if you wish, come and put your will to the test: only prevail against sleep for six days and seven nights.” _
> 
> _But as Gilgamesh rested on his haunches, a mist of sleep like soft wool teased from fleece drifted over him. Utnapishtim mused, “Look at him now, the strong man who would have everlasting life. Even now, the mists of sleep are drifting over him.” For each day Gilgamesh slept, Utnapishtim baked a loaf of bread. _

**∽⧖∼**

“So, Aziraphale, how’s the line of succession nowadays?” said the pillar of smoke rising from an abandoned cooking-fire. 

“It’s fine,” said Aziraphale. Akhenaten had been succeeded by his young son, under the close supervision of Aziraphale, the Vizier, and a handful of experienced advisors. The Vizier had been making noises about relocating the capital back to Thebes, lately. “But, there’s been an outbreak of hoof-and-mouth disease in the city outskirts,” he added hastily, lest Gabriel get any ideas about Aziraphale’s availability. 

The pillar of smoke groaned. “Again?” 

“It’s very contagious -” 

“Yes, yes, I read about it in your last report,” said Gabriel. “Well. Come up to Head Office when this dies down, won’t you?” 

“Of course,” said Aziraphale. “But not today. I’m due at court this afternoon. Vital stuff.” He was going to predict the Vizier’s death again. Last week, it had been _you shall be eaten by an apex predator._ He thought he might try _gored by rampaging bull_ this time. The vague implications of his imminent demise kept the Vizier on his toes, and let Aziraphale try to exert some sort of positive guidance over the new boy-Pharaoh. Truth be told, Aziraphale didn’t have much hope for the lad. He’d married his half-sister already, and his advisors had him so firmly in hand that it was physically impossible for the young Pharaoh to grow a spine. 

“Whenever you’re free, then,” said Gabriel testily. The archangel left the pillar of smoke without a farewell. The smoke lingered a moment, before an errant wind blew it right into Aziraphale’s face, making his eyes water. 

**∽⧗∼**

> _On the seventh day, Utnapishtim touched him and he woke. Gilgamesh said to Utnapishtim, “I had hardly slept when you touched and roused me.” _
> 
> _But Utnapishtim said, “Count these loaves and learn how many days you slept. The first loaf is hard like stone, the second like leather, the third is soggy, the fourth is mouldy, the fifth is mildewed, the sixth is fresh, and the seventh was still over the glowing embers when I touched and woke you.” _
> 
> _Gilgamesh said in despair, “What shall I do, O Utnapishtim, where shall I go? Already the thief in the night has hold of my limbs. Death inhabits my room, and I am weary.”_
> 
> _And Utnapishtim took pity on Gilgamesh, and took him to the washing-place. Gilgamesh washed his long hair clean as snow in the water, he threw off his skins, which the sea carried away, and put on clothes that would show no sign of age but would wear like a new garment till he reached his own city and his journey was done._

**∽⧖∼**

Not two years after his fathers’ death did the new Pharaoh renounce Aten-worship, change his name, and order the court back from Akhetaten to Thebes. Everybody was on board with that. Khapet and Menet had been on the first wave of barges out of Akhetaten. Aziraphale held out as long as he could, he could not linger in the city for much longer if he wanted the wards on the two brothers to hold. Already, he could feel the protections growing weak from distance, thin like butter over too much bread. 

“Oi, are you coming or not?” said the ship’s captain. He’d lost all his hair and was somehow more wiry than ever. The Sobek pendant that hung around his neck that Tuesday during the time loop had been replaced by a Ma’at pendant that was twice as large. All the moving around between capitals had been excellent for business. This was to be his last voyage, he claimed. Aziraphale knew that there were no _last voyages_ for men like him. He’d get an itch in his feet next month, and get back on a boat. Men like him died with their hands on the ropes, straining against the wind and the waves. 

“Give me a moment,” called Aziraphale. He checked to make sure his last chest of documents was secure. The Akhetaten harbour was a ghost of what it’d once been. The angel clambered clumsily onto a half-dismantled pier. 

“I’m leaving in half an hour, whether or not you’re onboard,” rasped the captain. Aziraphale tossed a pouch of copper pieces at the captain. “One hour,” amended the captain. 

That would be enough time. 

Aziraphale walked back through the city, winding his way south. The Records Hall had been mostly cleaned out. Aziraphale had ensured that nothing had been left behind in his secret basement storeroom, but he suspected his successor, Nofret, had not been quite so thorough with the other storerooms. He didn’t envy the man’s job. To have moved nearly all the records from Thebes to Akhtetaten, and then to move them all back again - that was enough to drive an angel mad. And it nearly had, the first time around. Nofret was far better at being the scribe overseer than Aziraphale had been. 

The angel arrived at Crowley’s house, at last. It now stood apart from its neighbours not only by the greenery that peeked out from within the high stone walls, but by the fact that scavengers hadn’t looted the building for all it was worth, from the white stones of the facade, to the thatch on its roof. He checked the runes he’d scribed into the foundation one more time. They would ensure that the house would still be standing the day that the demon returned to the city. Crowley would have a nasty shock if he returned to find his home sacked, his garden razed to the ground, and his apple tree chopped down for timber. 

But perhaps he should explain what had happened to the rest of the city? Aziraphale pulled out his favourite reed brush and a bit of papyrus from his satchel. There were _so many_ things that he wanted to say. But in the end, he settled for scribbling a short note. 

> _Dear Crowley, _
> 
> _The new Pharaoh’s decided to move the Capital back to Thebes. Hope we can meet up there sometime. _

He’d signed the other letters as _Sincerely_,_ Aziraphale_, but that closing had come to sound too formal. He wasn’t quite sure what to use instead, but settled for, 

> _Yours,_
> 
> _Aziraphale_

It seemed to strike the appropriate tone. Neither too aloof, nor too sentimental. The angel stepped back, admiring his handiwork. Then he affixed the note to the front of Crowley's door, and walked back to the harbour. 

“All done?” asked the captain, leaning over the helm of the boat. 

“All done,” confirmed Aziraphale. 

“Set sail!” shouted the captain. The crew sprang to action, unfurling sails and manning oars. Aziraphale noticed that most of them were also wearing Ma’at amulets around their necks as well, and suppressed a chuckle. 

It was a windless day, but a miraculous gust of wind blew the ship out of the harbour. 

Thus, they left the city of Akhetaten for the dust. 

**∽⧗∼**

> _Yet Gilgamesh asked again, “Utnapishtim, whom the gods favour, will you not share eternal life with me?” _
> 
> _And Utnapishtim said, “I cannot. Only the gods can impart eternal life, and I alone among men have been so favoured by the gods.” _
> 
> _Said Gilgamesh, “And the gods do not favour me?” _
> 
> _And Utnapishtim replied, “Gilgamesh, you have been blessed with strength and kingship. But there is no permanence. Do we build a house to stand forever? Does the flood-time of rivers endure?” _
> 
> _Gilgamesh wept, because he had crossed the wilderness, and wandered through the grasslands, and followed the secret paths under the mountain to the edge of the sea. Yet he returned to Uruk without eternal life in his hands. _
> 
> _There, he looked upon his city, its walls, its gardens, and its fields, and remembered that those too were the works of Gilgamesh, the king. He was wise, and he saw mysteries and he knew secret things, and he brought us a tale of the days before the flood, which he engraved on a stone. He had strength and kingship, as such was his destiny. But everlasting life is the destiny of no man, not even Gilgamesh. Because of this, do not be sad at heart, do not be grieved. _

“Oi,” said Khapet. “It’s your bid.” 

Aziraphale looked guiltily up from his book at Khapet. If not for the whiteness in the baker’s hair that came not from flour, but from age, and the lines around his mouth and eyes, Khapet might have been mistaken for a man in the prime of life. “I’m sorry, dear boy,” he said. “What was the last bid?” 

“Four fives,” said Khapet. He rolled his eyes. “Honestly, who brings a _book_ to the tavern?” 

“You can take the scribe out of the Records Hall, but you can’t take the Records Hall out of the scribe,” said Menet. The messenger’s wiriness had softened with age, but he could still beat men half his age in a foot race. Then his eyes took on a gleam of boyish mischief. “Especially when he’s got the entire library stuffed up in his robes, where the sun don’t -”

Mercifully, Khapet interrupted Menet’s litany. “It's that rubbish history-romance one. I recognize the binding,” said the baker, peering over at Aziraphale’s book. "Haven’t you read that one already?"

“Yes,” admitted the angel. 

“Oh, that sad one where everyone dies at the end," said Menet. "Why read it if you already know the ending?”

“It doesn't hurt to revisit old favourites sometimes,” said Aziraphale. He smiled indulgently at the two brothers. 

Now it was Menet’s turn to roll his eyes. “Just bid, won’t you?” 

Aziraphale peeked under his dice cup again. He had a pair of threes, a pair of twos, and a lone four. “Six fives,” he bid. 

“Liar,” accused Menet lazily. “You’re not even trying to play well.” 

They all flipped over their cups. “You’ve got me,” sighed Aziraphale. He signaled the serving-boy over for another round. The tavern in Thebes wasn’t so different from the one in Akhetaten. Both were located by the river, dotted with flocks of ibises and clumps of crocodiles. Both had a courtyard, where grapevines grew on an overhead trellis to shade customers from the sun. However, the Theban tavern served wine, whereas the Akhetaten one did not. And as much as Aziraphale had enjoyed Khapet’s pomegranate beer, he enjoyed Theban wine even more. 

“Nah,” said Menet. “I think I’m done today.” 

“Already?” said Khapet. 

“Yeah,” said Menet. “My son says I’m not as young as I used to be. Ought to take it easy on the drink, he says.”

“Pah. What does he know?” said Khapet.

“He’s a _physician,_” said Menet. “So hopefully, quite a bit.” 

“Don’t trust those quacks,” said Khapet. “I’ve never seen a _physician_ in my life. And I’m in perfect health.” He thumped himself on the chest. It was a crude but accurate assessment. 

“You’re fine,” said Aziraphale. “Both of you.” And, relatively speaking, Menet was also in excellent health for an old Egpytian man. In fact, the angel had taken pains to ensure that the two brothers were in stupendously good health, though their contemporaries had died two decades previous. Menet’s wife had died of her own volition ten years ago. His own children had borne children, making Menet a rare Egyptian who lived long enough to see grandchildren. 

Khapet himself had not taken a wife, claiming that if he did, it would be a huge loss to womankind. Specifically all the women at the House of Qetesh. However, Khapet had trained many apprentices, who in turn had trained yet more apprentices. The baker himself was enjoying the fruits of his retirement, generally in fermented and imbibable form. 

“Eh,” said Menet. “It doesn’t hurt to look after one’s health. That’s prolly what you’ve been doing, eh?” He nudged Aziraphale’s stomach gently. “Haven’t aged a day since you saved me from those guards.” 

“It was nothing,” said Aziraphale. 

Khapet looked at Aziraphale carefully. “What’s someone like you doing hanging about with the likes of us?” 

Aziraphale shrugged genteelly. “Where else would I be?” he said. “Being court astronomer leaves me a lot of time to spend with fine fellows like yourselves.” 

Menet said, “Why, thank you -” just as Khapet snorted. 

“Don’t flatter us,” said the baker. 

“I’m not flattering anyone,” protested the angel. 

“What makes us special?” pushed Khapet. “Sure, you saved Menet once. And we’re very grateful, of course. But why hang around after? Surely you’ve got places to go, other people to see...” the baker trailed off significantly. 

“Am I not allowed to associate with whomever I wish?” said Aziraphale mildly. 

“Yes,” said Menet, at the same time that Khapet said, “No.” 

The two brothers exchanged a glance, and then it was the messenger who spoke. “You used to wait for someone at the river, for years and years. Even though we’ve all left Akhetaten, you still glance over your shoulder, like you’re expecting someone else to show up. After you bet, you look for a player who’s not there. You laugh, and then you wait for someone else to laugh,” said Menet. “I knew a guy like that once. His wife died. He saw her around corners, and he saw her in the faces of other people in the tavern. He was just waiting for her to turn up, y’know? Or maybe he was just waiting to die.” Menet shrugged. “Hard to tell, some faces. But from your face, I can tell that you’re still waiting for someone else to join the game.” 

“I don’t have a wife,” said Aziraphale. 

“I didn’t mean a wife,” said Menet. 

Aziraphale waited for Khapet to chime in with something blasé, but the baker merely nodded. The silence stretched onward, gnawing at the angel’s insides, like little insects in his stomach. 

At last, he lifted his cup of wine to his lips and emptied it. “There was a priest,” he said. “We played dice a few times."

“Must've been more than dice," said Khapet. 

"Well, we argued a fair bit, too," said Aziraphale. 

"He didn’t die, though, did he,” said Khapet. 

Menet elbowed his brother in the ribs. “You can’t _say_ that, Khapet.” 

“I just did,” said the baker, and he hiccuped. 

“He’s not dead,” said Aziraphale vaguely. “But I - we had a tiff. Haven’t seen him in forty years.” 

“Shame,” said Khapet.

“It was my fault he left,” said Aziraphale. 

“Don’t be so hard on yourself,” said Khapet. He patted Aziraphale on the shoulder, and then burped. Menet covered his face and mimed wafting away the fumes with an oversized palm-leaf fan. “But it _is_ a shame. You ought to go and look for that fellow.”

“If he had wanted to talk to me, he'd have come to Thebes already," said Aziraphale.

"So, you haven't even _tried,_" accused Khapet. 

"Maybe he needs more space -" 

"Forty years isn't enough _space?" _ said Khapet. 

“I sent letters, and they all came back undelivered -” 

“Letters. Typical scribe,” sniffed Menet. 

“What you’ve got to do is try to talk to him face-to-face at least once,” said Khapet. “When I was eleven, I broke my mother’s favourite vase. It was painted with the most hideously deformed horses, but she loved it. Blamed it on Menet. He got a thrashing from our father, and then he wouldn’t speak to me, even though we lived together.” 

“What happened?” said Aziraphale. 

“Well, I felt bad, didn’t I? So I told mother and father that I’d broken the vase, and then lied about it. So father thrashed me instead.” 

“And Menet forgave you?” 

“Hell, no,” said the messenger.

“Not until I came to apologize to his face,” said Khapet. 

“And you accepted the apology?” said Aziraphale, to Menet.

“Well, not right away. Menet didn’t even want to look at me. I got punched for the trouble. But _eventually_.” The baker rubbed his cheek, as if remembering an old bruise. “Here we are today, after all.” 

“Those things take time, y’know?” said Menet. “Even if this priest doesn’t want to talk to you, it can’t hurt to give it a go-” 

“Actually, it might hurt,” corrected Khapet. “But you’ve still got to try, at least once. Know where that priest is, nowadays?” 

“He’s mentioned where he might go, if he ever left town,” said Aziraphale. 

“There you go!” said Menet grandly. 

“It’s rather far away, though -” 

“Travel’s good for the soul,” countered Khapet. 

“I couldn’t leave you two to your own devices -” 

“We can keep ourselves out of trouble fine, thanks,” said Menet. 

“You could _die_ if I left!” Aziraphale burst out. 

“Excuses, excuses,” said Menet, completely nonplussed. “You’ve been looking at our wrinkly faces for, like, four Pharaohs’ reigns.” 

“We’re fuckin’ old,” said Khapet. “Hell, I could die shitting tomorrow morning. I almost died getting out of bed today!” 

“We’ve outlived everyone we’ve ever known,” said Menet. He eyed Aziraphale beadily. “Except you, somehow.” 

“Me?” said Aziraphale, not quite managing to keep the squeakiness out of his voice. 

“You,” said Khapet. “A pansy scribe like you couldn’t take on three of the Pharaoh’s guards at once unless he had a little something extra up his sleeve.” 

“I’m not a scribe anymore -” 

“Seven guards, actually,” said Menet pompously. 

“You’re going daft, old man,” said Khapet, and he rolled his eyes affectionately at his brother, before jabbing a meaty finger at Aziraphale’s chest. “Point is, you look exactly the same as the day I met you.”

The angel had spent years shaping himself an outward appearance, and he hadn’t bothered to add wrinkles or greying hairs. He wondered if it was too late to paste on a bushy white beard at this point to maintain the illusion of mortality - 

“Now, we don’t care why,” said Menet, interrupting the angel’s thoughts as to what kind of moustache would go with his hypothetical beard. 

“And at this point we’re afraid to ask,” said Khapet, with no indication of fear in his voice at all. 

“But really,” said Menet. “If we go, then we go.” 

“Are you sure?” asked Aziraphale. The angel had warded the two brothers to within an inch of their lives against everything from cancer to household accidents to scorpion bites. It was been the least he could do after watching the brothers die a series of nasty deaths that Tuesday afternoon, long ago. But he couldn’t maintain those wards if he travelled too far away.

“Absolutely,” said Khapet, and his brother nodded. 

“Maybe you should think it over,” said Aziraphale. “Death is a big life event -” 

“We’ve thought it over,” said Menet, and he slapped his hand down on the wooden tavern table. “_Every time_ someone else we knew died. Which is pretty often, by the way.”

“If anybody should be thinking anything over, it should be _you_,” said Khapet, “thinking about how you’re gonna go and find that priest of yours.” 

“Alright,” Aziraphale said, at last. "I'll think about it." 

“Think harder,” said Menet. “Life’s too short to give up on some things. Even for the likes of you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi! Sorry for the delay! Megathanks to SilchasRuin for yet another last-minute beta. Back to a more normal posting schedule next week!


	22. Something for the Road

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aziraphale attends a meeting at Head Office.

Aziraphale did think over the possibility of going after Crowley. The angel had a fairly good idea of where Crowley _was_, although he was not sure what he would say once he caught up with the demon. Furthermore, he wasn’t going to leave Egypt unless he could ensure that Khapet and Menet would be in good hands when his wards broke and they met their inevitable deaths. A thousand-year stint in Purgatory prior to the birth and death of the Messiah did not count as _good hands_. His own few hours down there had been gruelling enough. Aziraphale could only hope that the conditions for human souls in Purgatory were different from that for wayward angels, but _hope _did not constitute sufficient guarantee for the wellbeing of the two brothers’ immortal souls.

It was something he could bring up with Gabriel. The archangel had been inviting Aziraphale to meetings to Head Office for the last forty years to discuss his incident report. That could mean anything from the receipt of a commendation, to an impromptu disciplinary hearing, to an actual discussion regarding the particulars of the incident report. Whatever Gabriel had in mind, Aziraphale thought he might be able to sneak in a question or two regarding the conditions in Purgatory. 

The angel ascended Upstairs by the Theban entrance, which had reopened around the time that Razikael had been unceremoniously recalled to Head Office. The elevators had been reopened, and the glass barrier removed from around the observation globe. There wouldn’t be any reason to keep the new security measures up after Razikael’s repatriation. All angels were once again present and accounted for. On the other hand, the janitor was _still_ cleaning the atrium floor, sweeping his mop in small circles around on the gleaming white-stone floor.

Aziraphale pressed the button to call the elevator. Why _was_ the janitor there? Couldn’t Head Office have the floors cleaned by magic? He could only guess that the janitor was there as some sort of punishment. 

The elevator’s happy little chime interrupted his thoughts. “Atrium,” a voice chirped. Aziraphale stepped in the elevator and pressed the button labelled _Human Resources_. The door closed, and the elevator began rising. Why did they bother with the announcements? There weren’t any _blind_ angels. 

Another chime. The voice made another cheerful but unnecessary announcement, and the mirrored doors opened. The department decor hadn’t changed since the beginning of time, from the industrial-grade cream carpeting to the acoustic-tile ceiling of indeterminate quality. Two hundred eyes turned towards Aziraphale as he strode purposely towards Gabriel’s office, but this time, they seemed to be filled with something besides surprise and suspicion. 

He knocked on the heavy wooden door. 

“Come in,” said an authoritative voice. So Aziraphale did. 

“Hello, Aziraphale,” said Gabriel. “Sit. Please.” 

Aziraphale lowered himself gingerly into the visitor’s chair across from the archangel. 

“So good to see you, and not a moment too soon,” continued Gabriel. The pleats of the archangel’s tunic were as crisp as ever. “That outbreak of hoof-and-mouth has been quashed, I take it?” He thumbed through Aziraphale’s neatly-bound incident report, which detailed Razikael’s exorcism with careful omittance of any allusions to time travel. 

“For now, but there’s a few isolated pockets in the north villages -” 

“Excellent. And how’s the new Pharaoh?” said Gabriel, cutting off Aziraphale’s response. 

“Horemheb’s very capable -” 

“Of course he is,” said Gabriel carelessly. “Well, down to business. I’ve been reviewing your report.” 

“Oh?” said Aziraphale nervously. 

“Yes,” said Gabriel. He leafed through the pages idly. “Resourceful of you, to take out that demon at the same time. It’s exactly what I would have done. How’d you realize that it was one of _ours_ possessing the Pharaoh?” The archangel leaned forward expectantly. 

“Well,” said Aziraphale. The word hung between him and Gabriel, as Aziraphale scrambled to fabricate a rationale for a realization that had, in actuality, come far too late. “There were all sorts of little things that just didn’t add up. For example. Er.” His creativity failed him at last. “I can’t put my finger on anything in particular. Call it intuition.” His voice rose in pitch, finishing the last sentence more like a question than a declaration. 

“Intuition,” said the archangel slowly. 

Aziraphale’s stomach churned. He should have said he’d been tipped off by something specific, like Razikael’s aura, or the way she spoke, or -

“Intuition,” said Gabriel, “is our greatest tool available to us. Always trust your intuition.” He leaned back in his chair. “I wish I’d known better than to send Razikael down to the field. She was a good field agent. Until she wasn’t.” The archangel sighed heavily. “Where did she go wrong?” 

“I couldn’t say,” said Aziraphale. He surreptitiously wiped damp palms on his tunic. 

“Of course not,” said Gabriel. “Good cannot comprehend evil, and vice versa, _yadda yadda yadda_.” He waved his hand dismissively at the window, beyond which manicured grounds seemed to stretch into infinity. “She’s clammed up, anyway. Says there’s no point trying to explain anything to me. Wouldn’t even apologize for missing twenty-years of check-ins and expense reports, and then... the _nerve_ of her to ask for another body_,_” he roared, slamming a meaty fist down on the heavy wooden desk so hard that his pen-holder tipped over. “Bodies don’t grow on trees. Doesn’t mean she can go bunk with a _human_, either. Do you know their bodies actually _decay_ over time, while they’re still alive?” Gabriel shuddered, disgust having overridden anger.

“Truly unfortunate,” said Aziraphale. “Might I ask where Razikael is now?” 

“She’s still catching up on paperwork in Purgatory,” said Gabriel.

“And what happens when she finally... catches up on the paperwork?” 

“Oh, I wouldn’t worry about that. Not until, er, the Almighty tells me otherwise. Hopefully it won’t be for a while. Can’t trust her now. Who knows if the rot in that human king’s brain has spread to her celestial mind. Maybe she’s even been associating with demons. That’s probably where she got the notion to possess the human in the first place.” Gabriel’s eyes darted across the corners of his office, before he leaned conspiratorially towards Aziraphale. “She might be _compromised_,” whispered the archangel. 

“Can’t have that now,” said Aziraphale. “Associating with demons. Compromised. Oh, my.” 

“It’s one thing to _know thy enemy_, and another to borrow their _modus operandi_. Surprised she didn’t Fall herself. Very irregular. I don’t have to tell you why, of course,” said Gabriel. He adopted a collegial tone. “Always knew you were a good one, Aziraphale. Your methods are unorthodox, but I can’t argue with the results. And neither can that demon Crowley. He got what he deserved, after all!”

Aziraphale was beginning to suspect this was not actually a disciplinary hearing. “So, er. Might I ask why I was called up here?” 

“Oh. Yes.” The archangel smiled with a beatific crinkle around his eyes, as he pushed a large brown envelope across the desk. “That’s your commendation,” he said. 

Aziraphale peeked inside. It was a laminated certificate. He could probably use it as a coaster. All of his old coasters had been burned down in the Akhetaten house, and he hadn’t thought to replace them yet. “Thank you,” said Aziraphale. 

“Any other questions?” said Gabriel generously. 

“Oh, maybe just one,” began Aziraphale. “Oh, never mind, it’s such a small thing.” 

“Ask it,” said Gabriel. 

“I couldn’t trouble you with it, not after the other time -” 

“Ask,” thundered Gabriel. His aura spread through the office, frosting up the wainscotting.

“Razikael’s in Purgatory,” began Aziraphale, “but so are a bunch of humans, until the Messiah’s born to absolve their sins.” 

“Yes,” said Gabriel, looking as though he already regretted giving Aziraphale an opening to ask his question. 

“But that won’t be for another thousand years or so,” continued Aziraphale. 

Gabriel’s eyes narrowed. He was probably getting flashbacks of an embarrassing moment at an all-hands meeting. “What’s your point?” said the archangel. 

“What are they doing while they wait?” said Aziraphale. “Have they got magazines or... maybe some paperbacks to pass the time?” 

Gabriel looked stunned. Then he laughed, pearly teeth flashing. “Why? Most of them can’t even read. Illiterate as chickens.” 

“So, er, what are they doing down there?” said Aziraphale. 

“Hell if I know,” said Gabriel. “Probably twiddling their thumbs. Why do you care?” 

“I don’t,” hurried Aziraphale. “Just checking. I’ll be out of your hair now.” He stood up and made to open the office door.

“Forgetting something?” said Gabriel.

Aziraphale turned slowly around. 

Gabriel nodded at the commendation again. 

“Oh, yes,” said Aziraphale. “Musn’t forget that. I’ll forget my own head next.” He forced a little laugh, and picked up the brown envelope. “Thank you.” 

“Well, I’ll see you in a hundred years,” said Gabriel. “For the performance review, you understand.” 

“Oh. Yes. A hundred years. I’ll note that up in my calender.” 

“Keep up the good paperwork.” 

“Of course,” said Aziraphale. 

“Don’t forget to use up your accumulated vacation time before it rolls over next millennium,” continued the archangel. 

“By all means,” said Aziraphale. 

“And close the door on your way out.” 

Aziraphale backed out of the office, and closed the office door very firmly behind him. 

A familiar voice greeted him as he was halfway to the elevator. “Hey! Aziraphale!” 

He turned slowly towards the voice with dread. Gold teeth glinted at him from the middle of the cube farm, coming closer with every moment. 

Aziraphale suppressed a groan. “Oh, hello, Sandalphon.” 

“Congratulations on your commendation,” said Sandalphon, and he beamed. “We all read your incident report. Gripping stuff.” He punched Aziraphale collegially on the arm. Aziraphale winced from both the punch and Sandalphon’s eye-watering cedar-scented aura. “I can only hope I’m half as effective when I go down to the field.” 

“The field?” said Aziraphale. 

“Oh, yeah. I’m getting deployed next month to - Nubbins - no, that’s not right, it’s got to be -”

“Nubia,” said Aziraphale, his heart sinking. 

“Nubia, that’s it. I can't wait to turn the sinners to salt and smite some demons,” said Sandalphon. His eyes were glazing over at the thought of smiting. “We’re going to be neighbours!” Sandalphon punched Aziraphale on the arm again, but he barely felt the punch through his dawning horror. 

Desperate times called for desperate measures. He mentally flipped to the oldest trick in the book. Crowley’s metaphorical book, at least. What had the demon called it? _Reverse psychopathy_?_ Revolting psychology_? The name didn’t matter. “I’m so glad you’ll be down in the field,” said Aziraphale.

“Really?” said Sandalphon. He lit up. 

“Oh, yes,” said Aziraphale. “Don’t worry about the smells. They cling to your clothes a bit, but it’s nothing a few rounds of miracles won’t take out.”

“The smells?” Sandalphon wrinkled his nose. 

“Packing so many human bodies into a city will do that. They’ve not figured out basic sanitation yet.” said Aziraphale. “Sinners as far as the eye can see. Well, sinners today, salt pillars tomorrow.” 

“Salt pillars,” said Sandalphon dreamily. 

Aziraphale smothered a spike of panic, and doubled down. “Anyway, it’s terribly brave that you’d want to go down to Earth in this climate,” he said, shaking his head. “Razikael gives a bad name for us all. But I’m sure that you’ll rise above it, no problem at all.” 

Sandalphon’s brow furrowed. “What do you mean?” asked the stocky angel. “You got a commendation out of it -” 

“Well, it’ll take more than that to shake Razikael’s shame,” said Aziraphale. He lowered his voice. “She spent too long down there. Went _native_. I thought I’d never live down the _shame_, but with you around, nobody will even remember what she did in a thousand years.” Aziraphale leaned in closely. “Between you and me, I’ve been trying to get _out_ of the field for the last few years.”

“But you’ve been doing so well there -” 

“Oh, you’ll get the hang of northeastern Africa in no time,” said Aziraphale. “Not much frightened me once I’d weathered a few hundred outbreaks of hoof-and-mouth disease -” 

“A few hundred _whats?_” 

“- and I’ve just been so _busy_ on Earth that I’ve hardly had the time to come Upstairs. Surprised Gabriel hasn’t forgotten me already.” Aziraphale rearranged his face into a fawning expression. “I’m so glad that I’ll have a chance to take a desk job up here. I can only _imagine_ what Gabriel’s taught you over the years.” He waited patiently for Sandalphon to put the pieces together. 

The cedar of the other angel’s aura wilted. 

“Anyway, it’s certainly an _audacious_ career choice, to go down to the field,” said Aziraphale. “I know you’ll do well. Despite the smells.” He patted Sandalphon’s arm. 

Sandalphon jerked his arm away. “I need to talk to Gabriel,” he said, more to himself than to Aziraphale. “Right now.” 

“Enjoy it while you can,” said Aziraphale kindly. “Might be a while before you can tear yourself away from Earth. There’s just so much down there to see, and do, and _smell_.” He thought about the smell of Khapet’s pomegranate beer, or a rainstorm, or freshly-baked bread, and allowed a wistful smile to spread across his face. 

“Gotta go,” said Sandalphon. He fled down the hallway of the Human Resources department with a slightly greenish tint to his face. 

Aziraphale suppressed a feeling of triumph as the elevator arrived. “Human Resources,” announced the voice. He stepped into the mirrored box, and silver doors closed on the sight of Sandalphon knocking urgently on Gabriel’s door. 

The wistful smile lingered on Aziraphale’s face until the elevator door opened on the atrium. He still didn’t know what conditions were like for humans in the basement of Head Office. He couldn’t leave Khapet and Menet to _die _without knowing that they’d be taken care of afterwards. Maybe he could sneak downstairs and take a peek at how the other human souls were doing - 

“Heard you were asking about Purgatory again,” said a deep voice behind him, just as Aziraphale was about to turn around and get back into the elevator.

Aziraphale jumped and nearly dropped his certificate of commendation. He turned around. It was just the janitor. “You can’t sneak around like that,” he exclaimed. 

“Load of duff. I can go anywhere I like. I’ve got all the keys, after all,” said the janitor. His dark eyes sparkled at odds with his light-grey uniform as he jangled the keys on his belt. 

A thought floated to the surface. “Anywhere you like,” said Aziraphale. “Don’t suppose you could, er, let me into Purgatory? Just so I can take a look at the conditions down there.” 

The janitor’s face creased regretfully. “Better not,” he said. But at Aziraphale’s crestfallen expression, he added, “I could tell you what’s going on down there, though.” 

That was better than nothing. “Very well,” Aziraphale acquiesced. 

The janitor leaned back on his mop. “What’d you like to know?” 

“The humans in Purgatory, waiting for the Messiah - do they have anything to read?” 

The janitor broke into a deep, throaty laugh. “I knew you’d ask that.” 

“Well, do they?” asked Aziraphale impatiently. “Since their sins won’t be absolved for the next thousand years or so...” 

“They don’t have any magazines in the waiting room,” said the janitor, rubbing tears of laughter from his eyes. 

Aziraphale felt his face fall. He couldn’t let Khapet and Menet go _there _\- 

“Don’t worry your head, lad, time passes differently down there,” said the janitor. “For them it’s just a blink of the eye before they hit the Field of Reeds. Or the City of Iri-Gal. Or the Great Beyond.” 

“Really?” said Aziraphale. 

“Really,” said the janitor. “I’ve seen ‘em down there. It’s like having a bit of shuteye before heading out onto the next great adventure.” 

“And what about the angels down there?” 

“There’s just one angel, singular,” said the janitor. “Time doesn’t pass for her as quickly as it does for the humans. She’ll be down there for as long as she needs to be.” His face darkened, and the atrium took on a particularly unearthly chill. “Nobody likes time travel. Pain in the ass to have to pull out the twine and the cutlery to make diagrams when people screw with the timeline.” 

“I haven’t got any idea what you mean about that,” squeaked Aziraphale. He hadn’t spoken a word about Razikael’s time travel to anyone except Crowley. How had the janitor heard about it? 

“Heard her talking to herself while I was mopping the hallway,” said the janitor, answering Aziraphale’s unspoken question. “You won’t believe what people say around the cleaning staff. It’s like I’m invisible in this jumpsuit.”

“And you believed her?” Aziraphale’s mind spun rapidly. He couldn’t let that version of events get up to anyone else at Head Office. Lilith’s time ritual was too _dangerous_ to become celestial knowledge_. _

“It’s too barmy to be made up. No wonder you dropped it from your incident report. Don’t worry. Time travel’s dangerous stuff. I won’t breathe a word to anyone else,” said the janitor. The words only partially assuaged Aziraphale’s fears that the truth might ever emerge to contradict his official incident report. “Sorry you had to go through that,” continued the janitor. “Must’ve been pretty stressful.” 

Aziraphale grasped at the last word. “Stressful. Yes,” he said. “And it was all so _pointless_. How could any of it have been part of the Plan?” 

“Razikael going AWOL was not part of the Great Plan,” said the janitor swiftly. 

“But what about the -” Aziraphale lowered his voice. “The _Ineffable_ Plan.” 

“Blimey,” said the janitor. “Everything’s part of _that_ Plan.” 

“I just don’t understand _why_ the Almighty would have allowed it to happen,” said Aziraphale. 

“Everything unfolded the way it was supposed to,” said the janitor. 

“It was _supposed_ to be a dog’s dinner?” said Aziraphale. The atrium was beginning to darken at the edges of his vision, and the angel felt unsteady on his feet. 

“It was _not_ a dog’s dinner. Nobody else could have done what you did. Would any demon have so selflessly interrupted Razikael’s ritual, without any understanding of its purpose, or concern for their own wellbeing? And would any other angel have been resourceful enough to complete the translation, or clever enough to trick Razikael into defeat?” 

“Yes,” said Aziraphale. “Gabriel or Michael could have -” 

“Bollocks. Gabriel would never have completed the translation,” countered the janitor mercilessly. “And Michael, bless her heart, would never have progressed beyond slaughtering the Pharaoh over and over again.” 

“None of my plans even worked properly -” 

“And because of that, she underestimated you. She thought she could control the negotiations at the temple,” said the janitor. “Yet when it really mattered, you found the strength to put everything right.”

“But that doesn’t have anything to do with _why_ it happened,” Aziraphale burst out. “If the Almighty doesn’t like time travel, couldn’t He just have made Lilith’s ritual fail completely from the get-go?”

“Well, it’s unfair to change the laws of spacetime two thousand years in -” 

“And nothing even _happened_ as a result of it all,” continued Aziraphale, despair unspooling from his heart like a ribbon. “Lilith didn’t reverse her fall. Razikael didn’t save Lilith. The capital of Egypt’s Thebes again, and everyone’s doing their best to forget Akhenaten's entire reign. I know the Plan’s _ineffable_, but how - why -” His words failed, and his hands tightened on his commendation, crumpling the thick paper and bending the laminated certificate within. 

“I wouldn’t say _nothing_ happened,” said the janitor, more gently. “I mean, the Almighty’s a big believer that experience builds character.” Then, the janitor muttered something that sounded like, “And. Er. Maybe He’s a romantic.” 

“Pardon me?” exclaimed Aziraphale.

“I said, don’t be pedantic,” said the janitor. Taking stock of Aziraphale’s shaky demeanor, he stowed his mop in the cleaning cart, and wrapped one arm around the angel’s shoulders. “Are you familiar with the Epic of Gilgamesh?” 

“Yes, but what’s that got to do with anything?” said Aziraphale, slightly stunned by the pivot in the conversation. 

“It’s not everyone’s cup of tea,” said the janitor smoothly, as if it was normal to blaspheme the Ineffable Plan one moment and then discuss Sumerian literature the next. “Gilgamesh and Enkidu start off as more archetypes than real people. And you could say that the entire story is pointless, too. The heroes slay the cedar giant and the Bull of Heaven, but they die having failed to achieve immortality of the flesh. 

“Yet there’s still delight to be had in watching Gilgamesh and Enkidu become friends. There’s joy in seeing them support each other through their trials. There’s even a grace to the way they accept their own mortality. I’ve read the story a hundred times and I know it all by heart, and I can say that knowing how it ends doesn’t take away from the pleasure of the story. 

“I’m sure the authors started the tale with another ending in mind. But one’s greatest creations eventually take on a life of their own. And it does the story a disservice to let them do anything other than what suits them. Even if it all ends in tears.” 

“But - but -” said Aziraphale, fumbling his questions and the metaphors alike. “But this story doesn’t end in tears, does it?” 

“No,” said the janitor. “It ends in a flash of green light.” 

Aziraphale gaped in horror. 

Then the janitor laughed. “Ah, I’m just yanking your wings. But you remember the end of the story? _He had strength and kingship, as such was his destiny. But everlasting life is the destiny of no man, not even Gilgamesh. _Death cut short the friendship of Gilgamesh and Enkidu, for death is the lot of man. And _you are no man._” He paused significantly, but before Aziraphale could respond, the janitor switched topics yet again. “Where are you off to, now?” 

The topic changes were making Aziraphale dizzy. _To find Crowley,_ he thought instinctively. They’d done their share of gallivanting around the Near East, and the demon had old haunts and hidey-holes all over the region. But after his discorporation, was Crowley really likely to stick around? The demon _had_ expressed an interest in going somewhere warm, where snakes were less likely to get smited into oblivion by the local populace. “Might take a bit of time off abroad,” he hedged. 

“Safe travels to you, then,” said the janitor. 

Aziraphale waited for the janitor to begin rambling on yet another tangent, but he just smiled benignly. At last, the angel had an opportunity to gracefully exit the conversation. “Well. You have a nice day,” said Aziraphale. “Goodbye.” He turned around to leave, and set foot on the escalator downwards. 

“By the way, lad,” called the janitor suddenly. 

Aziraphale turned around on the step of the escalator. The janitor was already rising rapidly out of view. 

“Well done,” said the janitor. He spoke softly, yet the angel heard his words as clearly as if the janitor had been standing right beside him. Something else about the janitor’s voice was also _different_, but Aziraphale couldn’t put his finger on _what_, before the atrium faded completely from view.

**∽⧖∼**

Angels accrued vacation time at a pathetically slow rate. However, Aziraphale had scraped up enough that he filed a request to take a year off, with the justification that Pharaoh Horemheb was made of sterner stuff than his predecessors and would do fine without any divine guidance. Gabriel approved the request in record time. Aziraphale suspected that the approval was partially buoyed by the archangel’s preference to keep correspondence with him to a minimum, lest he give Aziraphale an opening to start asking embarrassing questions again. 

Similarly, Aziraphale could have greatly reduced his travel time by way of the observation globe in the atrium of Heaven. However, the chances of bumping into Gabriel up there and getting his vacation approval rescinded was too high, as were his odds of having another unnerving conversation with the janitor. 

So he went the human way, or at least it _would_ be the human way if anybody had traversed the Atlantic at that point, which they hadn’t. 

The Theban harbour bustled with life. Seagulls shrieked overhead while merchants barked at dockhands to _stop faffing around and unload the damn cargo already_: resins from the Horn of Africa, wine from Phoenicia, cedar from Lebanon. The air sang with the smell of exotic spices and incense. Sunlight sparkled on the water, where little reed fishing boats darted around cargo barges larger than most houses. And at one pier, Aziraphale bid a final farewell to Menet and Khapet. 

“Are you always this sentimental?” grumbled Menet. 

“You might not be around when I get back,” confessed Aziraphale. The wards protecting the brothers would fail soon after the angel journeyed north beyond the mouth of the Nile. 

“Fair enough,” said Khapet gruffly. “Take this.” He shoved a small parcel into Aziraphale’s arms. 

“What’s in it?” asked Aziraphale. 

“Something for the road. Bit of the pomegranate beer you like so much,” said Khapet. “Some of the fig bread too. Where _are_ you going?” 

“Mexico,” said Aziraphale. In his head, he heard Crowley say, _They appreciate snakes there, if you must know. Fascinating local mythology._

Menet crinkled his forehead. “I’ve never heard of it.” 

“It’s west of here,” explained Aziraphale 

“In the desert?” The messenger eyed the angel suspiciously.

“West of the desert,” confirmed Aziraphale. 

“That’s rubbish. There’s nothing west of the desert,” said Menet. 

“There’s an ocean,” said Aziraphale. “And then a whole continent beyond that.” 

Khapet shook his head ruefully. “Knew I should have packed you more.” 

“Next you’ll tell me the Earth is round,” said Menet. 

“Would it be so bad if it was?” said Aziraphale. 

“Yes,” said Menet, at the same time that Khapet said, “No.” 

Menet looked at his brother with mock betrayal. “How can you say that?” 

“Well, when you make bread, it never comes out square,” said the baker. “It comes out sort of round and puffy. So it would’ve been easier for Atum to make the world round and puffy than flat or square.” 

“The world isn’t made of bread,” said Menet. 

“You don’t know that,” said Khapet. “For all you know, the moon is made of cheese. Delicious, delicious cheese.” 

Aziraphale felt tears well up in his eyes. “I’ll miss you two,” he said. 

“Yeah, yeah,” said Khapet. But he and Menet stood up and grasped Aziraphale in a four-armed hug, thumping him on the back repeatedly. 

“Hope you find that priest of yours,” said Menet, at the air behind Aziraphale’s head. 

“Fuck that shit,” said Khapet. “He’s gonna find that priest. I know it.” 

The angel winced, because Khapet had spoken right into his ear, but he hugged the brothers back as tightly as he could, cheeks wet with tears.

Menet and Khapet let go first. “Off you go,” said Menet, gently shoving Aziraphale towards his little sailboat. 

They parted at last. The brothers stood shoulder to shoulder as the angel boarded his dinghy, untied it from the pier, and summoned up a trade wind to push the boat out of the harbour. Aziraphale waved at Khapet and Menet, until they were little more than dark specks in his vision. 

Then, as Thebes shimmered in the distance, the angel shaped one more miracle. It took almost all his strength and skill to make the miracle to do exactly what he wanted it to do.

Aziraphale’s wards would break when he’d travelled too far from the two brothers. Khapet and Menet would live out the remainder of their lives without the invulnerability that the wards had granted them. They would need to have a lot of luck not to die from the jaws of crocodiles, or the ravages of disease, or - if one were ever to outlive the other - the pain of grief. At lot of luck, indeed. 

So the miracle gave them all the luck that Aziraphale could muster. In a few weeks, or maybe in many months, there would be a clear night, where the stars would shine brightly, and the wind would roll gently through the papyrus reeds, and all would seem right in the world. On that night, they’d both die painlessly and peacefully in their sleep. Neither brother would ever have to live without the other. When the time came, Khapet and Menet would walk into the Field of Reeds together. 

He released the miracle from his hands. It rose in the air like a wisp of dandelion fluff, but as strong and inexorable as an ocean current. Then, slowly, it fluttered against the wind towards Thebes. Before long, it too had faded from view. 

But though he could not see it anymore, he still knew the miracle had landed true. A sense of peace had settled over his shoulders, and Aziraphale _knew_ beyond a shadow of doubt that he had, at last, done something right. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mexico, here we come!


	23. The Serpent and the Corn People

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The reunion, part 1.

Aziraphale made good time on his oceanic journey. The trade wind he’d harnessed did most of the work, picking up speed after he exited the mouth of the Nile into the Mediterranean, and again when he passed the strait of Gibraltar into the Atlantic. The angel sailed as fast as he comfortably could, so that the wind still felt fresh and brisk instead of sharp and cold. The reed boat bore his chosen speed with hardly a creak of protest. All he had to do was steer a course around any incoming storm systems. 

That left Aziraphale a good amount of free time when the weather was fair - time to think about what he might say to Crowley, time to think about what Mexico might be like, and time to catch up on a bit of light reading. A selection of classic Egyptian literature was currently stacked in a corner of the dinghy’s cabin. Aziraphale could not risk bringing Lilith’s scrolls or Daeva’s translation of the _Epic of Gilgamesh_ \- they were _first editions_. He’d left them in Thebes for safekeeping.

Mnemosyne, on the other hand, was tucked at the very bottom of his leather satchel, underneath his scribe’s kit. _That_ was too dangerous to leave unattended, even under wards. 

Aziraphale had also brought with him an old map of the Atlantic that he’d liberated from the celestial library several centuries ago. The angel marked his progress on the map each day, estimating position by the sun and the stars. It wouldn’t do to drift off course and land in the Bahamas or Greenland or worse of all, _Florida_. Florida was Gabriel’s little joke. Start false rumours that the Fountain of Life was in Florida, then fill the region with alligator-infested swamps as far as the eye could see. And alligators were very similar to crocodiles. No, the angel would be steering very clear of Florida. 

Right now, Aziraphale was a day or two from rounding the Yucatan peninsula. He inspected the map from inside the dinghy’s cabin. Mexico was huge, hilly and verdant, strewn with mountains and threaded with rivers. Crowley was likely to set up base in the largest city in any region he was assigned to, if his past haunts of Uruk, Memphis, and Thebes had been any indication. But Aziraphale’s map was more than two thousand years old, and gave no indication as to where any human settlements might be located. 

A sudden gust of wind whipped through the ship’s cabin and tore the map out of Aziraphale’s hands. He scrambled to his feet and ran out onto the deck to catch it. But when he emerged from the cabin, the angel stopped dead in his tracks. The map fluttered out of reach, forgotten. 

Directly ahead was a sheer wall of grey cloud. It was approaching quickly. _Unnaturally _quickly... 

Aziraphalel darted back into the cabin to grab his satchel and sling it over his shoulder. He felt a pang in his chest as the pile of papyrus scrolls tumbled across the floor with the swell of the waves, but there was _no time_ to gather them together. Then Aziraphale rushed back on deck to shorten the sail. The ropes were heavy and wet in his hands. He struggled to rein them in as the fabric flapped wildly in the wind. The waves grew choppier. The boat heaved up and down, splashing salt water over the reed deck. 

Aziraphale finally managed to drop the sail, but the storm was already upon him. Sheets of water fell onto the boat and drenched the angel’s hair and his tunic. The roar of the wind filled his ears, and he couldn’t see more than a few yards in any direction. 

All Aziraphale could do now was try and dodge the worst of the waves. He hurried to the steering-oar mounted at the stern of the ship. But the dinghy had been designed for a crew of three to make sedate trips up and down the Nile, not for a solo angel to ride out a mid-Atlantic storm. The angel could no more navigate the crests and troughs of the ocean than an ant could cross a bowl of soup. The boat might as well have been a cork bobbing between the waves. 

Half of the sail tore loose. The ship jerked to one side, nearly throwing the angel off the slippery deck. 

He spotted a loose rope hanging from the stern. Aziraphale grabbed it, and tied it around his waist with fumbling hands. 

Just as he’d tightened the knot, a shadow fell over the boat. 

The angel looked up just in time to see an enormous wave come crashing down. 

**∽⧗∼**

The first thing that Aziraphale noticed when he woke up was the solid ground under his back. Sandy and damp, but gloriously solid nonetheless. 

The second and third things he noticed were the shouting, and the hands grasping at the front of his tunic. 

The angel opened his eyes and pushed himself upright on his elbows, coming face-to-face with a concerned-looking man. His dark hair was braided into a tail, and his hands were large and callused. 

“I’m sorry, what did you say?” Aziraphale asked. His tunic felt gritty. He pulled at the linen, shaking off grains of sand and dried flakes of salt. 

His dinghy lay on the sand nearby. It was mostly intact, surprisingly. The reeds that formed the hull were too light and springy to be splintered by landfall on the beach. He could not say the same for the mast, which had been snapped clean in half, or the steering-oar, which was completely missing. Aziraphale wondered if he could miracle up the missing parts, but then realized he didn’t really _understand_ how a boat was put together.

The angel’s satchel was also intact, hanging heavy and wet across his chest. Aziraphale fumbled open the top flap. His scribe’s kit had not fared well - the ink had been washed away in the sea, leaving a few scruffy reed brushes. But there was a comforting weight at the very bottom, and the angel’s fingers brushed Mnemosyne’s silken covering. 

The man looked relieved that the angel was awake, and rattled off several more sentences, none of which Aziraphale understood. 

“Could you point me towards the city, my dear fellow?” asked Aziraphale, withdrawing his hand from his bag. 

The man ignored the question. He took Aziraphale’s hand and pulled him to his feet, dusting sand from his back, gabbling the whole time. 

“I’m sorry, I don’t understand,” said Aziraphale helplessly. He raised his palms in the universal gesture for confusion. 

The man groaned and slapped his hand to his forehead. Then he began speaking anew, much more slowly and loudly. He pointed at Aziraphale’s wrecked dinghy. Then, he swirled his index finger around his ear. Finally, he gestured at the sun overhead, and a second boat several metres away. The second boat was long and narrow and looked like it was carved from a tree trunk. Nets of fish were heaped inside. More importantly, the second boat was perfectly intact. 

The fisherman snapped his fingers, and Aziraphale jerked his attention back. “Sorry,” the angel said sheepishly. 

The fisherman sighed and jabbed Aziraphale in the chest with his index finger. Then he made a two-fingered walking gesture with his other hand, in the direction of the second boat. 

“You want me to come with you?” said the angel uncertainly. 

The fisherman rolled his eyes and pulled Aziraphale towards the boat by his sleeve, muttering the entire time. The angel stumbled in the sand and caught a fragment of the tirade, at last.

“- could have drowned, what kind of idiot goes sailing during a storm -” 

“Oh. The storm. It appeared so quickly,” said Aziraphale. 

The man turned sharply towards the angel. “You speak our language? Why didn’t you say so?” 

“I’m, er, rusty.” And by rusty, Aziraphale meant that he was trying his very hardest to pick up the grammar, vocabulary, and syntax up on the fly.

“Thank the gods. I’d die if I had to mime anymore. You’re not from around here, are you?” 

“No,” said the angel. He looked around. Beyond the beach was a jungle, dark and impenetrable. He couldn’t spot any footpaths or rivers inland. “Bychance could you point me towards the city?” he asked. 

“Which city?” said the man. 

“Er. The largest one?” 

The man rolled his eyes. “Typical tourist. Only wants to see the _biggest_ and the _best._” 

“Sorry,” said Aziraphale. “I’m not familiar with the area.” 

“No shit,” said the man. “Lucky for you, there’s only one city worth seeing around here.” 

“And which city is that?” 

The fisherman smiled. “Tamoanchan,” he said. 

“Gesundheit,” said Aziraphale. 

**∽⧖∼**

The angel sat at the prow of the fisherman’s canoe as they travelled upstream from the river’s mouth. The sandy beach gave way to jungle less than a mile inland, with tributaries branching off left and right. Aziraphale could not imagine how he’d be able to navigate if the fisherman had not found him. The jungle canopy was too thick to see through, and betrayed no signs of civilization to follow. 

The fisherman, whose name Aziraphale learned to be Temba, talked nonstop as if to correct the angel's initial impression of his hometown. Tamoanchan was the greatest city on Earth. Tamoanchan was the biggest city on Earth. Tamoanchan was like nothing else on Earth.

And even before Aziraphale even arrived at the city, the angel agreed that he’d never seen anything like Mexico. Part of that might have been because the angel had spent most of his time on Earth in Mesopotamia, which had rivers and deserts and even some forests, but nothing like the jungle that stood on both sides of the river. The fisherman hugged the shade at the side of the river, shed by trees so tall Aziraphale could not see their tops. The land teemed with life of which the angel could only catch glimpses. A huge black cat prowled through the tree trunks. Birds with iridescent plumage screeched incessantly overhead. Small, long-limbed monkeys scuttled up and down vines and tree trunks like spiders. He even saw a massive, dark snake wrapped around a tree branch, overhanging the river. 

“Crowley?” he called tentatively. 

The snake woke up and lifted its head into a sunbeam. In the light, Aziraphale could see that the snake was brown, not black. It hissed at the angel. 

“Sorry,” said Aziraphale, feeling foolish. 

The snake lowered its head back into the shadows. Aziraphale averted his eyes from the snake, meeting Temba’s gaze instead. 

“Friend of yours?” teased the fisherman. 

“I’m afraid not,” said Aziraphale. 

“Shame,” said Temba. “Well, it’s good luck to see him.” At Aziraphale’s baffled silence, he elaborated, “Snakes are good luck. They’re associated with wisdom. Plus, legend has it that a snake created the world.” 

“Pardon me?” 

“LEGEND - HAS - IT - THAT - A - SNAKE - CREATED - THE - WORLD,” shouted Temba. 

“Oh,” said Aziraphale. He hadn’t misheard. “Could you, er, tell me that story?” 

“Do I look like your mother?” grumbled Temba. But he cleared his throat and began to recite the tale nonetheless. 

> _Long ago, there was naught in the world but darkness._
> 
> _The Feathered Serpent looked at the darkness, and decided that it was boring. He told the other gods too, and they agreed that it was boring. Together, they lifted the land up out of the sea. But the land was flat and not much to look at, so they decided to dress the whole thing up with some trees and mountains, so that it would look like they’d put some effort into the job. _
> 
> _Then the trees and mountains didn’t look right without anyone to live in them, so the gods created animals like the deer, the birds, and the cats. They taught the animals where each one should live, and what they should eat. Unfortunately, the gods soon realized that the animals could not speak. _
> 
> _The gods argued among themselves about what had gone wrong, and tried again. The Great Bird tried first, and created a men out of mud. But these men could not move or stand, and washed away when it rained. _
> 
> _Then the Were-Jaguar created a man out of wood, but these men had no emotion. So they were transformed into monkeys and sent into the wild. _
> 
> _At last, the Serpent decided to give it a go, and made men out of corn. _

“Corn?” said Aziraphale. 

“Corn’s tasty,” said Temba. “Who’s telling this story, you or me?”

“Sorry,” said Aziraphale. “Please go on.” 

> _As I was saying, the Serpent decided to give it a go, and made men out of corn. Why corn? I don’t know, but I know I’d rather my great-great-great grandpappy be made of corn than mud or wood. Corn is delicious and I’ll fight anyone who says otherwise. _
> 
> _The corn people could move and speak and feel. So the Serpent taught them where to live, and what to eat, and then showed them off to the other gods. _
> 
> _And the other gods all swallowed their pride and agreed the Serpent had done a good job. And the Serpent, pleased with his work, sent the men out into the Earth to make a name for themselves. _

“And that’s how man was created,” finished Temba. He had a belligerent glint to his eye, as if daring the angel to say another word about corn. 

“Is it really?” said Aziraphale, who at this moment valued Temba’s transportation services too much to even think ill of corn. 

“Look, if you want the official version, ask a priest,” said Temba. 

“Sorry. No. It was really quite good,” said Aziraphale. 

“Glad you liked it,” said Temba, not looking glad at all. “But I’m not telling you another story. Do you know why?” he asked ominously. 

“Er,” said Aziraphale, wondering how he’d offended the fisherman. 

“Because,” said Temba, “we’re home.” His face broke out into a beaming smile. “Behold, Tamoanchan!” 

Aziraphale turned around to see the dense thicket of jungle give sudden way to rolling green farmland, and a city perched at the edge of the river. And - were those _pyramids_ in the city? They were shorter than the ones the Pharaoh used as tombs, and with stepped sides and flat tops, but they were pyramids all the same. Aziraphale gasped. Temba nodded smugly. 

At last, Temba’s canoe bumped gently against a wooden pier. Aziraphale gaped at a pair of giant grey stone heads not far from the harbour’s entrance. The stone faces smiled beatifically at passersby. 

The fisherman followed Aziraphale’s gaze to the heads. “Those are the kings of old,” said Temba solemnly. 

“They’re very - very good,” stammered Aziraphale. And they were. The eyes and lips were rendered with stunningly crisp detail. One face even had undereye circles. None of the statues in Egypt had undereye circles. And none of them were as _large_. Each of the stone heads were at least twice as tall as the angel. 

Temba squinted at the heads. “Eh, I’ve seen better,” he said, but there was an undercurrent of pride nonetheless. “Right. I’ve taken you to Tamoanchan. Now, scram.” 

“I ought to pay you for your trouble,” said Aziraphale. He dug through his bag for the coin he’d brought from Akhetaten, fairly certain that silver and copper coins would be acceptable to the fisherman regardless of which country they were minted. 

“Can’t take your coin. I was coming up here anyways,” said Temba. He snorted. “And it’s not right to swindle tourists.” 

“Er, alright,” said Aziraphale. He lingered as the fisherman began unloading his catch. 

Finally, Temba looked up at Aziraphale from a net of fish. “Seriously, scram. Just because a little snake asked me to drag your half-drowned corpse off the beach doesn’t mean that I’ve got to play tour guide for you, too.” The fisherman didn’t say it unkindly, but very matter-of-factly. 

“A little snake,” said Aziraphale. 

“Yeah. Talked and everything. Told me to go fishing yesterday, and keep an eye out for any soggy-looking saps,” said Temba. Then he rolled his eyes at Aziraphale’s stunned expression. “It was a dream snake. Real snakes don’t talk.” 

“Certainly not,” said Aziraphale. “A talking snake. Of course there’s no such thing.” 

“You’re an odd one,” said Temba. He stood up. “Look, it’s a beautiful day in _Tamoanchan_, which may I remind you, is the _greatest city in the world_. I’m sure you’ve got things to do. People to meet.” He slapped Aziraphale on the back. “Off you go, yeah?” 

“Yes. Well, thank you, Temba,” said Aziraphale. He shook the fisherman’s hand, but his mind was already elsewhere. Had Crowley sent Temba that dream? Was the demon expecting Aziraphale? He felt giddy with the possibilities. 

**∽⧗∼**

Aziraphale spent several days getting his bearings in Tamoanchan. It was not, as Temba had claimed, the biggest city on Earth, being maybe a fifth the size of Thebes. Yet it was not without its charms. 

Great stepped pyramids rose up among the wattle-and-daub houses - some were tombs, some were temples, and some were both. They’d been out of vogue in Egypt for a thousand years at this point, and it felt strange to see them ten thousand miles away. 

On the other hand, the people of Tamoanchan dressed more colourfully than those in Egypt, in patterned cloaks and ponchos and loincloths and dresses. Aziraphale felt too uncomfortable to wear the bright loincloths most favoured by the locals, but found that a plain cream poncho and kilt suited him just fine. 

The food was different, too. He tried beans and potatoes and squash for the first time. He learned the sweetness of vanilla and papaya wine. He ate avocados until he thought he might burst. He even tried a hand at smoking tobacco, though that had ended in a coughing fit. 

It felt like there was something new to discover around every corner. A wrong turn could take him to a civic square where actors staged a play in the shadow of a great stepped pyramid, or a pottery market with urns and bowls of fine translucent jade, or a playing field where players tried to knock a rubber ball through a hoop high on the wall. Aziraphale understood at last what Crowley had found so appealing about travelling abroad. 

But every new experience was marked by a twinge of disappointment that he had not yet found the demon. Crowley must have known that Aziraphale was coming. Who else would have sent the storm to sweep him onto the beach? Who else would have sent Temba the dream to find Aziraphale and bring him to Tamoanchan? 

The angel began to explore the city with more purpose, trying to filter the demon’s aura out from the marvelous new sights and smells around him. He thought he could spot traces of Crowley’s aura lingering anywhere he cared to look, but the demon himself was nowhere to be seen. 

After his second morning of canvassing the city block-by-block, Aziraphale found a market, that sold mostly food and drink. Rickety tables and mismatched chairs were scattered before a row of vendors. He scanned the faces in the crowd. None of them stood out, and he sagged a little in disappointment. 

But while he was there, he might as well get something to eat. He picked a vendor at random. 

“What’ll you have?” she asked. The wineseller's face was kind and creased beneath her wide, woven-grass hat.

Aziraphale beamed. “I’d like - perhaps a mug of papaya wine, and - oh, those maize fritters look absolutely scrummy.” 

As he said the word _scrummy_, a man twitched at a table in the corner of his vision. Aziraphale’s eyes had slid right over the man at first, but now that he knew where to look, he really _looked_. The man wasn’t so inconspicuous after all. He was cloaked in black with tasselled red trim. And black was not a very popular colour in Tamoanchan - 

“On second thought, maybe just the wine,” said the angel. “In a travelling-skin, if you please.” He paid the wineseller absent-mindedly, and hastened to sit opposite to the dark-clad figure. 

“Crowley!” said Aziraphale brightly. 

The demon grimaced and dropped his forehead onto the table. 

Was Crowley drunk already? Aziraphale peered into the demon’s cup, but it was yet full of something dark and smoky. 

So Crowley wasn’t drunk. 

The mystery was solved a moment later when the demon removed his forehead from the table. “Oh, it’s you,” said Crowley, with the expression of someone who’d just received a surprise assessment for back-taxes owed. Aziraphale knew that look very well. He’d delivered a few of those assessments in person, back when he’d been head scribe. 

It didn’t make sense - hadn’t Crowley sent the storm and the fisherman, so that Aziraphale might find his way to Tamoanchan? But the demon’s aura betrayed no emotion at all. Aziraphale looked closer, and noticed that Crowley’s shields had been pulled up around him more tightly than his black cloak. The revelation sank his heart a little further, but he soldiered on. “Hello,” said Aziraphale carefully. “You look well.” The demon had grown his hair out, as well, so that it lay loosely around his shoulders. 

“Do I?” said Crowley. “Suppose I look better with a head than without one.” 

“So, is this a new assignment from Downstairs?” 

“I’m on _holiday_,” snarled Crowley. “Took all my banked time at once after that last discorporation - thanks, by the way. Nice and quiet here. No chance of getting murdered while the locals sing and dance about it.” He took a long draft from his mug. “What’re you doing here?” demanded the demon. “I don’t want any part in whatever cracked-up scheme you’ve come up with this time.” 

“I thought you might be in town,” said Aziraphale, still trying to maintain a veneer of good cheer.

“Oh, you came to find _me_,” said Crowley. “Sending all those letters wasn’t enough? Pity I can’t return _you_ to sender.” 

“You didn’t summon the storm or the fisherman to bring me here?” asked Aziraphale. The hope he’d felt when he’d spotted the demon was fading rapidly. 

“No,” said Crowley. “I don’t make a habit of inviting my _executioners_ on holiday with me.” 

“Oh,” said Aziraphale. 

“I need some air,” said Crowley, despite the fact that they were already sitting outdoors. He pushed his chair backwards from the table and stalked out of the market.

The wineseller was arriving with Aziraphale’s order of papaya wine. “Thank you,” said the angel distractedly. He took the wineskin and pushed his way through the market before he could lose sight of Crowley.

“Crowley - wait -” he panted, jogging to catch up to the demon.

Crowley didn’t look back. “I’m not going to give you another excuse to discorporate me,” he called. 

“No - just let me explain -”

“Alright,” said Crowley, and he spun around and fixed Aziraphale with a scathing stare. “Let’s get this over with. Say whatever you’ve come to say.”

There was no easy way to break it to Crowley that Razikael had been an angel, and that his murder had all been a ploy to distract the guards. All the words he’d rehearsed in his head on the boat fell apart, like a sandcastle in a storm. There was only one thing, really, that he’d come to say. 

“I’m sorry,” said Aziraphale, in a very small voice. 

“I can’t imagine what you might be sorry for,” said Crowley sarcastically. 

“I’m sorry for lying to you,” said Aziraphale, feeling like the ground was crumbling under his feet. “I’m sorry for betraying you. I’m sorry I killed you.” Mnemosyne sat heavily in his shoulder-bag. _I’m sorry I accused you of converting the Pharaoh to sun-worship. I’m sorry I blew off dinner in Tell Hassuna. I'm sorry I didn’t catch you before you Fell. _

Crowley laughed, harsh and brittle. “Forty years, and that’s the best you can come up with? Last time, you had a story about time travel, a rogue demon possessing the Pharaoh, and a bunch of scrolls. Now - nothing? You disappoint me.” 

“I can explain,” said Aziraphale. 

“No need,” said Crowley. “I had plenty of time to connect the dots when I was filling out my discorporation paperwork.” The demon drew himself upright, shoulders braced and feet planted, and took a deep breath. “You _used_ me,” he accused. “The Pharaoh said he wanted me and the scrolls. You had both. I was _bait_. And when I’d served my purpose, and the Pharaoh had done whatever you needed him to do - well - ” Crowley jerked a hand across his neck. 

And Aziraphale _had_ used Crowley - first to translate the scrolls, and then to lure Razikael to the temple. The moment that she’d ended the ritual, he’d murdered Crowley. 

“Well, it was quite a plan,” said Crowley, and he smiled coldly. “So diabolical that even I didn’t see it coming.” He clapped slowly at Aziraphale. “Bravo. Upstairs must’ve given you a real pat on the back for that, taking out the _evil_ demon and the _evil_ Pharaoh in one fell swoop.” He spat the words out like venom. 

And Aziraphale _had_ accepted a commendation from Gabriel for his work in Akhetaten. How could he stand here in front of Crowley and ask him to accept an apology? The angel’s heartbeat rang through his ears. He was rooted to the spot, unable to turn and run. 

“I’ve got just one question for you. Was it all worth it?” Crowley paused, and covered his mouth with his fingertips. “Oh, but I’ve been nothing but a thorn in your side since the moment we met. You’d been trying to give me the brush-off for centuries, with all that arguing about _who gets Egypt_ and _who should get reassigned_. Of course it was all worth it.” The mocking smile slid off Crowley’s face as easily as it had come. “Did I miss anything?” The question was quiet, and the demon’s breath was quick and shallow. 

Aziraphale couldn’t bring himself to breathe, let alone speak. 

“I didn’t think so,” said Crowley. 

The demon turned on his heel and walked away, head down, shoulders hunched. 

And this time, Aziraphale did not follow.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. Thor Heyerdahl made a transatlantic crossing in a reed boat in 1970, proving that it's not completely impossible for an angel to travel from Egypt to Mexico in a papyrus dinghy.  
2\. Very little is known about the Olmecs of Mexico, circa 1300 BC, including the names of their cities. The details of Tamoanchan have been pulled together from other Mesoamerican societies.


	24. Xocoatl

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is the last chapter of the story.

Aziraphale lingered in the town for a few days afterwards, but the newfound delights of Tamoanchan had suddenly become much less delightful. 

The angel was beginning to contemplate whether or not he should just throw himself and his dignity at the demon’s feet and beg for forgiveness, blasphemy be damned. And contemplation was best accomplished with a drink in hand, particularly on warm, sunny afternoons. “Do you have anything that pairs well with remorse?” he asked the wineseller. She wasn’t wearing the wide-brimmed hat today, revealing long hair tied back and streaked with silver. 

“Oh, remorse,” she said, with a maternal twinkle in her eye. “One of those days. You’re not from around here, are you?” 

“No, I’m afraid not,” said Aziraphale. 

“Well,” she said. “There’s always pulque. It’s made from agave sap. Got a cunty flavour to it.” 

“Pardon me?” said Aziraphale indignantly. 

“I said, it’s got a funky flavour to it,” she repeated. “An acquired taste for some.” She eyed Aziraphale critically. “Hmph. Maybe balché will be more to your liking.” 

“And what is balché?” asked Aziraphale, almost afraid to know the answer. 

“It’s brewed from honey and tree-bark,” said the wineseller. She poured a measure into a white clay cup and swirled it. The amber liquid caught the light, and a sweet, mildly medicinal scent wafted into the air. Aziraphale was considering ordering it, when the wineseller leaned in closer. “I’ve steeped some morning glory seed in this one, to give it an _extra_ _special _kick. If you know what I mean,” she added. 

“Er,” said Aziraphale. 

“A _magical _kick,” she said, in case the angel still hadn’t gotten the point. 

“No, thank you,” said Aziraphale. He took a step back from the wineseller.

She rolled her eyes, tossed her head back, and downed the balché in a single swallow. “Well, there’s always xocoatl. It’s made from cacao seeds,” she said, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand. “We usually save it for weddings and festivals, but I’ve got a bit left over from the Feathered Serpent Festival two weeks ago.” 

“I must have just missed it,” said Aziraphale. 

“Ah, that’s a shame. The serpent gets the best festivals,” she said. “Anyway. Xocoatl. It’s very bitter, but very rich.”

“I don’t know,” the angel said doubtfully. 

“You’d like it,” said a voice, behind him. 

Aziraphale whirled around. “Crowley!” he exclaimed. This was his chance. Aziraphale opened his mouth, but Crowley interrupted the angel before he could try to apologize again. 

“Yeah. You’d like the xocoatl,” said the demon, without looking at Aziraphale. And then to the wineseller, he said, “Light on the chiles, but with the vanilla and agave nectar.” 

Aziraphale and Crowley watched the wineseller portion out roasted cacao seed paste into a very small cup and top it off with boiling water, cornmeal, fragments of vanilla pod, and agave nectar. She poured the mixture into a second cup, and then back into the first, over and over. 

Aziraphale glanced over at Crowley. His face was a study in careful impassivity, but there was no disguising the guarded rigidity of his shoulders.“I was picking up a few of my things in Akhetaten a few years ago, after I got a body back,” Crowley said casually. 

“Oh?” said Aziraphale with interest, in the same way a drowning man showed _interest_ in a lifeline. “You didn’t say you were in town.” But of _course_ he wouldn’t have, you didn’t go a-calling to your _hereditary enemy_ after they’d lopped your head off. 

“Saw the strangest thing,” said the demon, ignoring Aziraphale’s interjection. “The whole city was looted clean. Even most of the stones from the building walls had been dragged off to Satan-knows-where.”

“Oh,” said Aziraphale. “The old Pharaoh couldn’t live that down, could he? They struck his name from all the monuments, wiped his city off the map.” 

“Yes,” said Crowley. “It’s all gone.” He paused for dramatic effect, eyes still fixed on the wineseller’s show of transferring xocoatl between cups. “Except my house. Looked like I’d never left.” 

“Did you see my note?” said Aziraphale hopefully. 

“Nah. I don’t make a point of reading random pieces of papyrus tacked to doors,” said the demon, “and neither should you.” Aziraphale felt the beginnings of another surge of disappointment, but Crowley was still speaking. “I do, however, make a point to step carefully around my house when it’s protected by wards that aren’t mine.”

“Did you find anything amiss?” said Aziraphale, not daring to rekindle the spark of hope in his chest.

“Everything inside was just as I’d left it,” said Crowley. “The statuary. The linens. Even the wine.” 

“Oi, your xocoatl’s ready,” said the wineseller. The demon scowled at the interruption in his story, but allowed the wineseller to pass a steaming mug to Aziraphale, wrapped in a corn husk for protection against the heat. 

“Thank you,” said Aziraphale. He paid her with a silver Egyptian piece. 

“Any particular occasion?” she asked, pocketing the silver. They didn’t use coinage in Tamoanchan, but silver and gold had barter value anywhere on Earth. 

“Oh, no reason,” said Aziraphale, at the same time that Crowley said, “Reunions.” 

“Blimey. Cheers to that, then,” said the wineseller. 

Aziraphale took a wary sip. The xocoatl was bitter, yes, but also rich and faintly sweet. The angel had never had anything remotely similar. He looked up at Crowley in shock, and was further startled to see the demon’s yellow eyes looking back at him. 

“Oh, ye of little faith,” said Crowley. “I knew you’d like it.” 

“How did you know?” said Aziraphale. He took another sip from the mug, and savoured the creaminess of the xocoatl as it slid down his throat. 

Crowley shrugged. “I know you,” he said. “Anyway. I took all the wards off my house. Including the new ones. Stored my furniture in one of the tombs in the Valley of Kings. Took the wine with me to Tamoanchan, though.” He peered at the angel, who had finished his cup of xocoatl entirely and was now mournfully contemplating its emptiness. “I’ve still got a few jugs buried around here.” 

“Don’t suppose the wine was still good?” asked Aziraphale. 

“Oh, it’s excellent,” said Crowley. He hesitated. “Interested in trying a forty-year-old vintage?” he said cautiously. “We’ve all said things we regret. I’m sure we have lots more to talk about, and I don’t feel like doing it sober.” 

“Yes. Please,” said Aziraphale. 

Before he left, he returned his empty mug to the wineseller. She took it, and winked unnervingly at the angel.

**∽⧖∼**

That was how they ended up climbing the Great Pyramid of Tamoachan at sunset. It was shaping up to be a rather spectacular evening, but Aziraphale hardly noticed, because he was focussed on not tripping on the uneven clay steps and taking a long, nasty tumble to the bottom. 

The pyramid was only a hundred feet high - far shorter than the Pharaoh’s pyramids of old, but still the tallest human structure in at least a thousand miles. Crowley’s dark cloak billowed behind him as he ascended the steps two at a time, as nimbly as if he made the climb every afternoon. Aziraphale followed, clutching the stitch in his side. He would much rather have flown up, but Crowley had chosen to make the climb by foot, and who was Aziraphale to suggest any other method of ascension? 

At long last, Aziraphale reached the flat top of the pyramid, and bent over to catch his breath beneath a makeshift canopy set on sticks. A reed mat and a few cushions were strewn on top of the pyramid. The civic plaza stretched in front of them, where a troupe of mediocre buskers sang and bashed their drums beside a square reflecting-pool. 

Crowley sat down on the largest cushion, dangling his legs off the top of the pyramid. He summoned two white clay cups and a sealed clay jug. Aziraphale recognized it as part of the demon’s stash in his Akhetaten cellar. 

The angel gingerly sat down on another cushion, legs crossed. It was a tad windy at the top of the pyramid. The breeze sent ripples through the cloth canopy, and tumbled Crowley’s red curls around his shoulders. The demon’s hair was as long as it had been a thousand years ago in Uruk, and in Eden before that. The unfortunate Egyptian coif had become a blessedly distant memory. 

“There was something about my house that I didn’t mention,” said Crowley. “The furniture, the statues, and the wine were all where I left them.” He patted the clay jug beside him. “But then I went outside, to check on the back garden. The plants had all gone feral when I wasn’t looking. And my apple tree had actually fruited.” He paused thoughtfully. “There aren’t any apple trees within a hundred miles of Akhetaten.”

“Really,” said Aziraphale. “What did you do?” 

“Well, I had to send all the plants back home to be with their own kind,” said Crowley. “Including the apple tree.” He pulled an apple from a pocket under his cloak. It was red and gold. The demon tossed it in the air, as if testing the weight. Then he caught the apple again, and with a small knife, cut it into halves. He offered a piece to Aziraphale. “Care for a slice?” 

The flesh glistened, crisp and wet. 

Aziraphale couldn’t turn it down. He took the apple-half, and bit into it. It tasted like a thousand perfect autumn sunrises. 

Crowley smirked, and for a moment, it was like they’d never left Mesopotamia at all. 

“You really didn’t call the storm?” asked Aziraphale, when he had finished his half of the apple.

“You know that kind of weather-control is beyond either of us,” said Crowley. He crunched into his half of the apple, chewing thoughtfully. “It’s just the Princes of Hell who can do it. And your archangels, I suppose.” 

“So the storm, and Temba - those were just a coincidence,” muttered the angel. He couldn’t imagine that Gabriel would have much interest in ensuring that Aziraphale washed up on the optimal stretch of Mexican beach following his Atlantic voyage. 

“Yep,” said Crowley. “If you believe in coincidences, anyway.” He broke the seal on the clay jug and poured two cups of wine, passing one to the angel. “So, what’ve you been up to?” 

“Advising the pharaohs,” said Aziraphale, accepting the wine. “Four or five of them. Remember Akhenaten?” 

“How could I forget?” said Crowley. 

“He didn’t last long after you, er, left. His son took over -”

“Come on, you can’t trust a kid with that kind of power -” 

“That’s right. He married his half-sister.” Aziraphale took a cautious sip from his own cup. The wine was dark red and tasted of smoke and spice and leather. 

Crowley _tsked_. 

“Exactly,” sighed Aziraphale. “Egypt seemed to be on the right track when I left, though. Horemheb’s Pharaoh now. He was one of the boy-king’s generals. Decent enough fellow, though he spends a lot of time trying to wipe the entirety of Akhenaten’s existence from history. The archaeologists will have a field day trying to explain that sun-worship in a few thousand years.” 

“Bring that up again, would you?” grumbled Crowley. He drank deeply from his cup, and turned his gaze from Aziraphale to the plaza below. The buskers were packing up at last, and the townsfolk criss-crossed the ground to hurry home. “Why did you come here?” 

“I wanted to apologize,” said Aziraphale. 

“But after _forty years,” _pressed Crowley.

“I had to take care of things in Egypt, and I thought you might need space -” 

“Forty years!”

“I’m sorry,” said Aziraphale. He set his cup of wine down, and fiddled with the raw edge of his poncho. “I wish I’d never involved you that afternoon. I wish I’d never asked you to come to the temple. And I wish I hadn’t discorporated you -” 

“Then why’d you do it?” said Crowley. He slid down to the second-highest tier of the pyramid, and began pacing back and forth. The angel caught a glimpse of his expression at last. The demon’s face was a mask of anguish, like it had been at the Temple of Aten. Aziraphale’s insides twisted painfully. 

“You were using me as bait - and you _promised _we’d take the Pharaoh on together -” the demon’s voice cracked just a fraction on that word, but then he continued as if he hadn’t missed a beat at all. “- and then you _promised _you’d be right behind me. Did you mean any of it?” Crowley fell silent then, his cheeks flushed with anger, and his knuckles white on his mug of wine. 

“No,” said Aziraphale. “I’m sorry.” 

“I don’t want to hear that you’re sorry. I want to know why you did it. And I want to know why, afterwards, you set the extra wards on my house, waited forty years, and then barged in on my holiday even though I’m an _aberration, _a _corruption_, a _mistake. _I want the _truth!” _The demon’s mug shattered beneath his grip, splashing red wine across Aziraphale’s poncho. Clay shards of the mug clattered down the steps of the pyramid. 

“You’re not a mistake,” said Aziraphale. He stood up, dropping to the next tier of the pyramid to face the demon.

Crowley’s eyes were rimmed with red, and he took a step backwards away from the angel, leaving footprints of wine. 

“You’re not any of those things,” said Aziraphale. 

“Then why’d you say it?” said Crowley. 

“Because it was part of the plan,” said Aziraphale. 

“It’s always the Plan with you, isn’t it? I’ve had up to here with _plans_,” snarled Crowley, slashing a hand over his head. “Which one was it this time? The Great Plan? The Ineffable Plan?” He spun around in disgust, and kicked a shard of his winecup down the pyramid.

“It was my own plan,” said Aziraphale. 

Crowley’s head snapped back towards the angel. He looked stunned, but recovered quickly. “To what end? To impress Upstairs by taking me and the Pharaoh down at once? I’m touched that I merited such a complicated scheme, but really, you shouldn’t have bothered, a bit of smiting would do the trick -” 

Aziraphale looked down at the puddle of wine around his feet. “We had to frighten off the guards somehow, and staging a battle between Apep and Ma’at was the way that we could do it,” he said. 

“Then _stage_ a battle,” said Crowley. “You didn’t actually have to cut my head off -” 

“I did,” said Aziraphale, “Because discorporating got you out of the way of the Holy Water.” 

Crowley drew a hissing breath in between his teeth, but Aziraphale kept talking. “But dropping a pondful of Holy Water on the Pharaoh didn’t even work, because I guessed wrongly, and Razikael was actually an angel, and I had to exorcise her instead -” 

“How do you exorcise an angel?” interrupted Crowley. 

“Pardon?”

“How do you exorcise an angel?” repeated Crowley. “I thought you lot couldn’t possess humans.” 

“Turns out we can,” said Aziraphale, a touch of shame colouring his words despite his best efforts. “But, ah, I tricked her into a summoning circle.” 

“Huh,” said Crowley. His rage had mellowed into a low simmer. “Who would’ve thought.” Then, he asked, “And the time loop ritual, that was real?”

“It was,” said Aziraphale. 

“Why’d Razikael bother with any of it at all?” 

“She did it for Ophiel. Or Lilith.”

“I knew a Lilith,” said Crowley. “Tallish. Terrifyingly brilliant.” He shuddered. “And Razikael had it out for Lilith, then?”

“Rather the opposite,” said Aziraphale. “Razikael wanted to go back in time, so she wouldn’t have killed Lilith.” And the angel recounted the entire story, starting with how Lilith had first forged Mnemosyne. 

“Hold on, I know that one too. Shows you the memories you’d forgotten, right? The ones you don’t want to remember,” said Crowley. 

_The memories you don’t want to remember_, repeated Aziraphale in his head. But he _did _ want to remember. It just hadn’t been his place to go any further without Crowley - 

He shook the thought off. “That’s correct,” he agreed, and continued the tale, of how Lilith had realized she wanted to reverse her own Fall. How she’d invented the time ritual to that end. How the ritual had failed, and how she’d gone to Razikael for help. And how Razikael had destroyed Lilith with Holy Water for her trouble. 

“But Lilith was carrying Mnemosyne on her when she died. So it passed to Razikael’s possession,” the angel continued. “And Razikael realized she’d made a mistake. And that the time loop was the only way that she might be able to fix her mistake.” 

“A bit of post-discorporation guilt, then?” said Crowley archly.

The angel didn’t take the bait. “It wasn’t just discorporation. She used Holy Water,” said Aziraphale, and the demon winced. “Mnemosyne didn’t just show Razikael she’d made a mistake. It made her remember that she’d once loved Lilith. And that’s why she conducted the whole time ritual.” The angel glanced away from the demon, feeling embarrassed. “It was all for her.” 

“Ah,” said Crowley, with sudden quietness. “I can see how she might feel that way.” He climbed back up onto the top of the pyramid, and sat on the cushion. Another clay cup materialized in his hand, and he filled it with wine from the jug. 

“You can?” said Aziraphale. 

“Well, I can imagine,” said Crowley awkwardly. He lifted the cup to his lips and took a long swallow, staring at the setting sun. “Let me guess. She didn’t care that the task was impossible. She wouldn’t listen to reason. You had no choice but to take her out.”

“How’d you know?” 

“Demonic intuition.” Crowley turned back to the angel. “You did the right thing, then.” 

“Well. I’m not sure I did,” said Aziraphale. 

“No, you did,” assured Crowley. “It’s not possible for an angel to do the wrong thing, remember?” 

Aziraphale felt himself blush. He’d taken those words at face value on the wall of Eden, watching as Adam and Eve ventured out into the wilderness. But this time, sitting on the pyramid as the cityfolk scurried across the Tamoanchan plaza, he didn’t miss the sardonic quirk of Crowley’s mouth as he spoke, nor the irony. “That’s not true. Razikael did the wrong thing,” said the angel. 

“With the time loop? You can’t blame her for trying -” 

“I meant when she killed Ophiel -” 

“Lilith,” corrected Crowley. 

“When she killed Lilith. That couldn’t have been the right thing, could it?” 

“Maybe. Well.” The demon tapped on his chin with long fingers. “Alright. I’ll amend that. _It’s not possible for an angel to do the wrong thing, but if they do, they try really hard to fix it,” _said Crowley. “Better?” 

“It’ll have to do, I suppose,” said Aziraphale. He climbed back onto his cushion. Crowley refilled his cup. 

They sat and sipped Egyptian wine in silence for a while. Aziraphale dared to glance at Crowley again, but the demon seemed lost in thought, staring into the sky streaked crimson and gold.

“How’d they meet?” said Crowley suddenly. “An angel and a demon, y’know.” 

“They met before the Fall, actually,” said Aziraphale. 

“And they _remembered_ that?”

“Not until Mnemosyne showed them,” said Aziraphale. He pulled the knife out of his satchel and unfolded its silk covering. It gleamed silver, and he offered it handle-first to Crowley. “You could use it, too,” he said quietly. “Just by touching the handle. I don’t think it’d show you what happened during the time loops, because none of those alternate realities _really_ happened for you, but you could use it for other things. You could see the past -” 

“You used it, then,” said Crowley sharply. 

“Just twice. And the first time was by accident,” said Aziraphale. 

“And what did you see?” said Crowley. 

_I saw us. I saw times where I was horrid to you, and times where I wasn’t. I saw you Fall. _“I saw myself in the Celestial Library,” said Aziraphale, “working on a new solar system. Tauri Draconis.”

Crowley squinted at the sky. “Which one’s that?” he asked. 

“Between Sirius and Betelgeuse,” said the angel, gesturing vaguely above. “Can’t see it right now, though. The sun’s still too bright.” 

“Convenient,” said Crowley. “How come you only used it twice, then? I thought you’d miss the Celestial Library.” 

“It wasn’t just the Celestial Library,” admitted Aziraphale. 

The demon raised an eyebrow. 

“I know you don’t remember much of it, but I think it would show you if - if you wanted to see the light of Heaven again, or remember your wings used to look like, or know what your name was -” babbled Aziraphale. _Or the Celestial Library, or Tauri Draconis, or me, did you wonder if we’d ever met before the Garden of Eden - _

“I see,” said Crowley. A shiver ran through the demon, despite the warmth and humidity of the evening air. He reached towards the knife, stopping a few inches short, and his eyes flickered from Mnemoysne to Aziraphale’s face and back again. “And Razikael and Lilith, they saw -” 

“They saw each other, before the Fall.”

“Hm,” said Crowley. His gaze met Aziraphale’s, shining golden in the sunset. “And that’s how they remembered that -” 

“Yes,” confirmed Aziraphale. 

“Well, then,” said Crowley. “I’ve made up my mind.” 

He lowered his hands over Mnemosyne. The angel thought he would take the knife by the handle, but he merely picked up the corners of the silk kerchief, folding them back around the blade and hiding Mnemosyne from view. Then, he closed Aziraphale’s own hands back around the silken bundle. “It’s kind that you offered and all, but - really - I’m fine.” 

“What?” said Aziraphale, dismayed. 

“There’s nothing it can show me that I need to remember,” said Crowley. He released the angel’s hands. 

“Your name!” 

“I’ve got one already, thanks,” said Crowley peevishly. 

“- or your wings -” 

“White washes out my complexion.” 

“- and the love of the Almighty, and the light of Heaven -” 

The demon shrugged. “I haven’t forgotten what that feels like.” 

“Then how can you not want to see it again?” cried Aziraphale. 

“Eh, I’ve seen better,” said Crowley. 

“Where? On Earth?” 

“Yes, on Earth,” said Crowley impatiently. A tinge of pink crept up his cheeks, and he wrapped his cloak more tightly around him. “Look, Aziraphale. I don’t need to know who I was before. I know who I am _now_. I don’t have any particular desire to go spelunking in my subconscious for the answers to any burning questions -” 

Aziraphale fixated on the last word. “So you _do_ have questions -” 

“Burning questions that I may or may not have,” said Crowley loudly, “of no particular urgency, whose answers can likely be found _in the here and now_ -” 

“The here-and-now? The past is full of answers! You can’t discount the entire fields of history, archaeology, and political science -”

“Don’t put words in my mouth,” said Crowley. “It’s one thing to go and raid tombs for bathroom bric-a-brac. It’s another to go poking around my brain with a tool originally designed to _torture humans in Hell_.” 

“But -” 

“That knife’s convinced an angel and a demon to drop everything and do their damned best to relive the past. It’s destroyed _two lives_ already. Don’t let it destroy a third,” said Crowley. He took a deep breath. “Can you say that it can show you anything that you really _need_ to see?” 

Aziraphale fiddled with Mnemosyne’s silk shroud. He still had _questions_. What had the demon’s name been? How many star systems had they designed together? And who had they _been? _Razikael’s words rang through his head, a ghostly laugh. _Was he a friend? A rival? A lover? All three? _

But Crowley had been all three in the span of a single Tuesday afternoon. 

The demon already had a name. There were no more stars to build. Who might they become in a few thousand years? 

Crowley was still looking intently at Aziraphale with something bordering on concern. He should probably say something. “Suppose not,” he said, and tucked Mnemosyne back into his shoulder-bag, silk covering and all.

The demon breathed a sigh of relief. “That’s right,” said Crowley, and he sloshed more Egyptian wine into Aziraphale’s cup. “Now, there were some scrolls... Lilith’s, if I recall correctly.” 

“You do,” nodded Aziraphale. 

“Excellent. What did you do to them?” 

“I hid them,” the angel muttered. 

“What?” squawked Crowley. “I thought you might have burned them.”

“I don’t _burn_ unique works of literature,” said Aziraphale, “especially not _first editions._” 

“At least tell me you hid them somewhere safe.”

“I’m not telling you where they are,” said Aziraphale indignantly. “The fewer people who know where they are, the better.” 

“I don’t want any of your blessed scrolls,” said Crowley. “But please, _please_ say that you hid them properly. That you didn’t just stuff them under your mattress.”

“Er,” said Aziraphale. “Of course I haven’t. Nobody will ever find them.” That was a lie. They were in a box under his bed in Thebes. He chugged his wine, and made a mental note to shuffle them somewhere else when he got back after his holiday.

“Good,” said Crowley. “I’d hate for anyone to get caught in a time loop again.”

“Oh, no,” said Aziraphale. “It took a hundred afternoons of translation to get out of it.”

“Though, if every day restarts without anyone having any memory of the last - no hangovers, nobody harping on you for not filing your paperwork,” said Crowley. “Were you ever tempted to do anything fun?” He scratched the back of his neck.

“Fun?” said Aziraphale. 

“I understand the concept is difficult for you, but yes,” said Crowley. “Fun.” 

“I know what fun is,” said Aziraphale.

Crowley leaned towards the angel and waited, a glittering gleam in his eyes. “And?” 

Mnemosyne was still wrapped securely in its silk, a weight deep inside his bag. Yet the memories were sharp and clear. Khapet and Menet arguing as to whether or not black was a real colour. Stumbling arm-in-arm with the demon around the market, sampling a dozen libations in a single afternoon. His living room painted with rosy sunrays, spinning gently out of focus right before he’d kissed Crowley - 

“What’s so funny?” interrupted the demon. The sharp planes of his face were softened by the glow of the setting sun. 

Aziraphale hastened to stifle the smile on his face. “Nothing of import,” he said, feeling himself blush again. 

“Fine. Keep your secrets,” grumbled Crowley. “You probably spent the whole time face-first in Lilith’s scrolls.” 

“That’s not true. I spent some time reading the _Epic of Gilgamesh_, too.”

“Isn’t that a romance? I thought you were too good for romances.” 

“It’s not just a romance,” said Aziraphale. “It’s a swashbuckling adventure. A meditation on grief. An paean to mortality.” 

“Oh, dear lord,” said Crowley. “I didn’t come to Mexico to hear your take on Sumerian literature.” 

“Sorry,” said Aziraphale. Inspiration struck the angel. Under any other circumstance, he might have called it divine inspiration. “Let me make it up to you,” he offered. 

“I don’t think that anything could make up for the fact that you went a hundred Tuesdays without committing any acts of arson, vandalism, or petty theft,” said Crowley. 

“I suppose not,” said Aziraphale. “But it’d be remiss not to try. We could start with dinner.”

Crowley’s eyebrows shot up. “Dinner,” he repeated, and Aziraphale remembered that, in this timeline, they hadn’t had a meal together in over a thousand years. 

Menet’s voice echoed through his head. _Life’s too short... even for the likes of you._

It was as good a time as any to rectify that situation. 

“Yes,” said the angel. “Dinner. My treat, dear boy. Just as long as we don’t have to walk all the way back down the pyramid.” 

He watched the bafflement on the demon’s face give way to curiosity, and then he knew he had won. 

“What the Hell,” said Crowley. “Alright. You’ve got me.” He unfurled his wings. A gust of wind filled his feathers, and the demon was borne aloft on wings starkly black against the fiery sky. Then he did a barrel roll that was at once completely unnecessary and unduly breathtaking. 

Aziraphale lingered underneath the weather-beaten canopy. Black really did suit Crowley. Black and red and gold. 

The demon circled back to face Aziraphale. “Are you coming?” called Crowley, hovering in place. His hair streamed behind him, and his eyes glinted mischievously. “I know a woman in the next village over who makes the_ best_ maize fritters.” 

“Just a moment,” said Aziraphale. He raised his winecup absently to his lips, but it was already empty.

“Better be a short one,” warned Crowley. “I’m not waiting for you.” He spun around in a whirl of darkness, and swooped west towards the setting sun. 

Aziraphale set his empty cup down and opened his wings, feeling the breeze ruffle his feathers. 

Of all the questions Mnemosyne had raised, there was only one worth asking, really. And Aziraphale had all the time in the world to find the answer. The prospect thrilled and terrified him in equal measure. 

He couldn’t wait to start. 

The angel leapt off the pyramid, and followed the demon into the blazing sky.

**∽⧖∼ ∽⧗∼ **

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi there, dear reader. That was the last chapter of _Once More, with Pharaohs_. 
> 
> Thanks again to SilchasRuin and GraphiteGirl for betaing and bearing with my strict self-imposed deadlines. And thank you to everybody who's read this 105k word monster, gave constructive criticism, commented, or left kudos. In particular, I've been blown away by the love that readers have expressed for Khapet and Menet. Those two dudes are based in part on myself and my younger brother, who killed himself two years ago at age 22. I've mostly come to terms with it, but I still cried a little when one of the commenters said, "It’s also a testament to you that I can feel how Aziraphale loves them." Anyway. Just blown away by how much some of you liked this story, whether it was the two brothers, the historical details, or Aziraphale's time loop shenanigans. Thank you.
> 
> I have some author's notes regarding Aziraphale's character development and general historicity that I'll be posting in the next week or two. After that, I'll start on the draft of the standalone not-a-sequel, probably set in Tenochtitlan, 1400 A.D. It'll be called _The Seven Temptations of Aziraphale._ I'm aiming for 20-40k words of friendship, a tiny bit of romance, and scheming. So much scheming. And it'll be good. I promise.


	25. Author's Note

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Notes on historicity and character development. NOT ACTUALLY PART OF THE STORY.

And here is the author’s note. It’ll contain a few notes on historical context, with focus on the fic’s deviances from fact, and cool pictures. After that I’ll segue abruptly into some rambling about character development, in case anyone else finds it useful in their own story. 

### Historical Notes 

#### The Epic of Gilgamesh

The Epic of Gilgamesh originates in the Sumerian oral tradition, circa 2100 B.C. The basis of most modern translations is a set of twelve tablets compiled by the Mesopotamian scholar Sin-leqi-unninni between 1300 and 1000 B.C., preserved in the Library of Ashurbanipal around 700 B.C., and rediscovered by archaeologists in 1853. Aziraphale’s tablets would have been an older Babylonian edition, of which only fragments have been recovered - no complete version of the epic has been found in its original Sumerian form. 

In any case, I’ve made some changes to the standard text to better suit the themes of _ OMwP . B_ut rest assured that the original (or, at least, the N.K. Sanders translation) is _ just as shippy _. Case in point: 

> When Anu had heard their lamentation the gods cried to Aruru, the goddess of creation, “You made him, O Aruru, now create his equal; let it be as like him as his own reflection, his second self, stormy heart for stormy heart. Let them contend together and leave Uruk in quiet.”

And

> When you see him, you will be glad; you will love him as a woman and he will never forsake you. This is the meaning of the dream.

Anyway, here are my two favourite Epic of Gilgamesh fics: 

  * [_No Small Feat_](https://archiveofourown.org/works/276124) by storiesfortravellers
    * Gilgamesh remembers his relationship with Enkidu. 
  * [_In the House of Dust_](https://archiveofourown.org/works/16495) by kindkit
    * Gilgamesh reminisces as he approaches his own deathbed. 

#### Egypt

Egypt was approaching the tail end of the 18th dynasty in 1337 B.C., following such illustrious figures as Hatshepsut, the female pharaoh who re-established trade networks disrupted in the Second Intermediate Period, and Thutmose III, one of the greatest military pharaohs. Together, the pharaohs of the 18th Dynasty were able to secure their borders, strengthen the economy, and expand the Egyptian Empire to its greatest extents. That is, until Akhenaten began pursuing a new spiritual direction for the nation... 

##### The Pharaoh Akhenaten 

Akhenaten was a weird dude. There’s no way around it. Five years into his reign, he adopted Atenism (sun-worship) as the state religion, changed his name, and moved the capital city to Akhetaten. His reign was not _ terrible _, but only because he was coasting on the economic coattails of his predecessors. But that momentum could only carry him so far. At the end of his reign, the Egyptian economy suffered from the huge logistical costs of setting up a new capital city.

Akhenaten died somewhere between 1336 and 1334 B.C., from unknown causes. While I’ve chosen to chalk his death up to tuberculosis in _ OMwP _, signs of which have been observed in Egyptian mummies, it is speculated that Akhenaten actually died of homocystinuria (an endocrine disorder) or temporal lobe epilepsy. 

The line of succession following Akhenaten’s death is also not entirely clear. The rulers Smekhkare (one of Akhenaten’s brothers or sons), and Neferneferuaten (either his wife or his daughter) are present in the historical record, but it is unclear as to whether they were co-regents of Akhetaten, co-regents following Akhenaten's death, or pharaohs in their own right. 

I’ve ignored both Smekhkare and Neferneferuaten in _ OMwP _ because within two years of Akhenaten’s death, his son Tutakhamen ascended to the throne. Tut was all of eight or nine years old when he took the throne. He was heavily assisted by his Vizier, Ay, and his general, Horemheb. In _ OMwP, _ Ay is the Vizier who keeps blocking Aziraphale’s path to the throne room. He did _ not _ actually achieve the rank of general, as Aziraphale describes, but was once the “Overseer of All the Horses of His Majesty,” the highest rank in the chariot division of the army, and only one rank below a general. 

Tut, Ay, and Horemheb all disowned Atenism to various degrees of enthusiasm. Tut was content just to get away from Akhetaten and begin the restoration of the temples pillaged by Akhenaten. Ay continued the reconsolidation of the old religious orders. Horemheb got right down to demolishing Akhenaten, Tut, and Ay’s monuments for his own building projects. Luckily for modern archaeologists, he did not bother cleaning out the archives of the Records Hall. The famed[ Amarna Letters ](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Amarna_letters) survive as a record of the diplomatic correspondence between the Pharaoh and various monarchs in the vicinity of Egypt. Guess poor Nofret, Aziraphale’s successor as Scribe Overseer, never managed to clean out the Records Hall in the exodus from Akhetaten. 

##### Akhetaten

Because everyone was so eager to clear out of the godforsaken city of Akhetaten, archeologists had a super fun time exploring an entire, mostly-intact Egyptian city. The city was rediscovered in 1714 by a Jesuit priest. Subsequent archaeologists mapped the city, uncovered various tombs, and excavated the central city. Unfortunately, modern agricultural activities have obliterated some details of the city structure and layout, particularly in areas near adjacent to the Nile. Archaeological efforts to unearth Akhetaten continue to this day. 

_ Map of Akhetaten. _

Due to the [ hasty nature of Akhetaten’s construction ](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Urban_planning_in_ancient_Egypt) , the street layout resembled spaghetti more than the standard grid layout of cities like Giza or El-Lahun. In _ OMwP, _Aziraphale lives in the north suburb of Akhetaten. Houses near the main road were larger and grander, while those further away were smaller and shabbier. The south suburb, where Crowley lived, contained the estates of the city’s nobility. In between the two residential areas was the central city, containing the main ceremonial and administrative buildings in Akhetaten. 

_ Map of the central city. _

The Great Temple of Aten was the largest subcomplex in the city, containing multiple buildings oriented serving the religious needs of the city. 

_ Map of the Great Temple. _

The Gempaaten had dimensions of about 130 m by 216 m, and served as an open-air hall of worship. It was oriented east-west, with the intention that worshippers would be able to look up at any given time and see the sun passing by overhead. At the back of the temple complex was the Sanctuary, which had small residences for priests on duty, massive statues of the Pharaoh, and a private altar for the use of the royal family. Despite what _OMwP _suggests, there is no archaeological evidence that the priests ever hosted budget meetings in the Sanctuary. 

Perhaps you ask why the Great Temple of Aten is so freakin’ _ huge _ yet so freakin’ _ empty _. There are hundreds of offering tables. It takes ten minutes to walk from one end of the complex to the other. It’s thought all the empty space was intended for further buildout, but then Akhenaten died and the entire complex was abandoned. For the purposes of this story, I’ve filled it out with Crowley’s temple garden, because the ancient Egyptians loved gardens, and because a garden is a nicer setting than a hectare of empty sand. 

_ Fresco from the scribe Nebamun’s tomb in Thebes, showing a very nice garden. _

Egyptian gardens had an amazing array of plants, ranging from the medicinal to the decorative, from exotic flowers to shade trees. 

Apple trees are not native to Egypt, but despite Crowley’s suggestions to the contrary at the end of _ OMwP, _ were introduced to the country sometime around the fifteenth dynasty. It is entirely plausible that there may have been multiple apple trees present in Akhetaten. However, apple trees take up to ten years to fruit. The city of Akhetaten was nine years old in 1337 B.C., so it _ is _possible that the demon might have encountered difficulty arranging for the cross-pollination of his tree around that period, particularly after the city was abandoned and farmland and orchards were reclaimed by native vegetation. 

Pomegranate trees, on the other hand, only take two to three years to begin bearing fruit, which is how I justify the presence of the semi-abandoned pomegranate grove on Khapet and Menet’s fishing island near Akhetaten. 

##### Apep, Lord of Chaos

Ra was the sun god, the bringer of light, and the head honcho of the Egyptian pantheon. By the time of _ OMwP _ , he’d been combined with the creator god Amun as Amun-Ra, though the solar aspects of Ra were retained, including his daily journey in a boat through the sky. However, in _ OMwP, _I’ve continued referring to him as Ra, since that’s the sun god most people are familiar with. 

Poor Apep (also known as [ Apophis ](https://www.gateworld.net/wiki/Apophis) ) got the shit end of the stick and was stuck as Ra’s designated archenemy. He got epithets like Lord of Chaos, Serpent of the Nile. Every day at sunset, Ra descended in his barque and battled Apep. Ra’s victory over Apep was not a sure thing - the Egyptians had a chant ( [ spit on Apep / smite Apep / etc. ](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Apep#Worship)) and assorted rituals to ward Apep off and ensure the sun would rise again every morning. Poor Crowley. 

_ Ra (as a giant cat) slaying Apep. _

Snakes weren't always reviled as symbols of chaos and evil, though. The Uraeus was a stylized cobra used to symbolize the divine authority of the Pharaoh in ancient Egypt. Snakes also guarded the gates of the underworld. A giant black and red snake slithering independently around outside the underworld, in opposition to the Pharaoh, though? It's smitin' time. 

##### Housing

Egyptian houses were generally made of mud bricks, molded into squares and dried in the sun. I imagine that Aziraphale lived in a commoner’s house, due to a housing shortage from the rapid relocation of the capital to Akhetaten: 

_ The house of a well-off ancient Egyptian commoner. _

Crowley, on the other hand, would not have put up with substandard accommodations. In _ OMwP, _he occupies quarters befitting that of a high-ranking government official: 

_ The house of a wealthy ancient Egyptian. Note the garden area at the back. _

This is the Sumerian goat statue I imagined that Crowley kept in his seldom-used washroom (though Crowley’s is larger: 

_ “Meh-eh-eh! Meh-eh-eh!” said the goat balefully. _

It stares at you as you use the facilities, and scrapes your legs on the way out. 

Finally, the Royal Palace of Akhetaten was the primary residence of the Pharaoh Akhenaten. It boasted not one, but _ two _ gardens. 

_ In his journey to talk to the Pharaoh, Aziraphale sneaks in through the smaller garden, adjacent to the royal apartments. _

Despite the drabness of the archaeological site today, the palace was originally extensively decorated. Art ranged from the sublime...

_ A watercolour copy of one of the paintings in the palace, depicting birds. _

... to the self-indulgent. 

_ This painting was found in Akhenaten’s tomb, but Pharaohs were fond of slapping portraits of themselves basking in the gods’ (or in this case, his one god’s) favour all over the place. Note the sizes of Akhenaten, his wife, and his children, which represents their relative importance in the royal hierarchy. _

#### The Atlantic Crossing

It is not impossible to cross the Atlantic in a reed boat. Papyrus is a very light and buoyand material. Water sloshes right through boats made of papyrus reeds. Thus, Thor Heyerdahl, in an attempt to prove that oceanic voyages in antiquity were not physically impossible, crossed the Atlantic in a reed boat in 1970. He had a crew of six, and it took them 57 days. I imagine that Aziraphale did the crossing in about two weeks, travelling at a brisk 40 km/h the whole time, based on how fast he was able to make Madame Tracy’s scooter go. 

_ Thor Heyerdahl’s second papyrus boat, Ra II. _

#### Mexico,1297 B.C. 

The preeminent society of Mexico in 1297 B.C. was the Olmec civilization. Very little is known about the Olmecs. They are best known for their carvings of giant heads, and a fascination with pyramids that was also shared with later Mesoamerican cultures, including the Mayans and the Aztecs. 

_ An Olmec head _

The Olmecs disappeared around 400 B.C. Archaeologists speculate that depopulation may have been caused by earthquakes or river siltation due to agriculture. To properly illustrate Olmec society for the sake of this story, I pulled in details from classical Mayan and Aztec civilization, which are better documented. 

##### Olmec Fashion

Aziraphale’s poncho and Crowley’s cape are consistent with [post-classical Mayan](https://i.pinimg.com/564x/5d/19/cb/5d19cbf81fc679326a198f05029ea62e.jpg) garb, particularly for those who might not be entirely comfortable with the loincloth-centric fashions at the time. I imagine that Aziraphale was wearing something like #28 (but with more kilt), while Crowley was wearing something like #19 (but with a more dramatic cape). 

##### Tamoanchan 

Tamoanchan is a Mayan word for their cradle of civilization, where their gods created the first humans. It is not, as far as anyone knows, an actual Olmec city name, because nobody is sure what the Olmecs called their cities. I put Tamoanchan near the site of modern-day La Venta, the site of the Great Pyramid where Crowley and Aziraphale drink Theban wine in the last chapter. However, the La Venta settlement only rose in prominence after 900 B.C., which does not strictly align with the _ OMwP _timeframe. 

“>

_ The great pyramid of La Venta, which was the largest Mesoamerican structure of its time. It is constructed of clay over earthen fill. It is speculated that the structure is a tomb. _

The population of La Venta was estimated to peak at about 18,000 around 900 B.C. In comparison, the population in Thebes was estimated at 100,000 around 1300 B.C., and Akhetaten’s population peaked at 30,000 before everyone legged it after Akhenaten’s death. 

##### The Feathered Serpent 

The Olmec had many gods, of which the Feathered Serpent was one. It is not entirely clear what role the Feathered Serpent played in the pantheon. However, given the foundational nature of Olmec culture on subsequent Mesoamerican civilizations, it is not unreasonable to say that the Feathered Serpent may have played [the role of a creator god](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Q%CA%BCuq%CA%BCumatz). 

_ Olmec statue of the feathered serpent - the earliest known depiction of a feathered serpent in Mesoamerica. _

##### Food and Drink

The Maternal Wineseller offers Azirphale a choice of pulque, balche, and xocoatl in the last chapter of _ OMwP. _None of the drinks are strongly alcoholic, because Mesoamericans did not have distillation technology until after the sixteenth century Spanish conquest. 

Of the three, only xocoatl is present in Olmec archaeological evidence. Cacao beans were fermented, mixed with boiling water, chiles, and other flavourings. The use of sweeteners was not widespread, except during the fermentation process, thus the resultant xocoatl was very bitter and not at all close to hot cocoa. 

Balche, on the other hand, is a Mayan drink made of the bark of the greenheart tree, fermented in honey and water. There is no evidence that morning glory seeds, which contain a psychoactive substance, were ever part of the recipe for balche. However, it is known that Mayan balche drinkers sometimes took the drink with hallucinogenic substances through ritual enemas to maximize the intensity of the inebriatory state. Thus the drink was banned by the invading Spanish. 

Pulque dates back to at least 200 A.D. It’s fermented from the sap of agave plants, and is described to have a thick, slimy mouthfeel and a sour, yeasty taste. The taste of pulque has been likened to, “[ depending on the way you swing, cum or vaginal juices ](https://www.vice.com/en_us/article/kwpgza/the-enigma-of-pulque).”

On a more palatable note, let’s briefly touch upon the significance of corn, or maize. Along with squash and climbing beans, corn is referred to as one of the “Three Sisters” of indiginous American agriculture. The corn grows tall, the beans climb up the corn, the squash spreads along the ground and retains soil moisture, and the spines on the bean plants deter pests. Of the three, corn was the most prominent component of the ancient Mesoamerican diet. It couldn’t be fried into fritters, as Crowley suggests, but roasting and baking are both [ culinary possibilities ](https://anthrochef.blog/tag/mesoamerica/). 

### Character Development: The Heroine’s Journey

I started writing _ Once More with Pharaohs _ because I was enamoured with the imagery of Aziraphale and Crowley masquerading as ideologically-opposed Egyptian deities, and having to duke it out. The time-travel plot started falling into place soon after: Razikael and Ophiel/Lilith emerged, followed by Menet and Khapet. Unfortunately, I was still grappling with Aziraphale’s character arc. How can he spend the whole time-loop segment learning to appreciate Crowley, taking a personal interest in mortal affairs, and realizing he’s been a bit terrible the whole time, only to culminate in murdering Crowley (again) for what may or may not be the greater good? 

I was 50% of the way into the draft before I realized I had to get my act together, otherwise I’d have a big emotional hole right in the middle of the story. 

And one day, as I was procrastinating on the story, the answer came to me. 

#### The Hero’s Journey

Many of us learned about the Hero’s Journey in school, as codified by Joseph Campbell. The Hero’s Journey is the story about the protagonist’s exploration of the unknown, and their struggle to prove themselves to society and their peers. They are launched head-first into an adventure, and at the last minute, they realize that they have the strength within themselves to become the hero that they need to become. Classic examples of the Hero’s Journey include _ Star Wars: A New Hope _ , and _ The Matrix _. 

_ Woohoo, flashbacks to ninth grade English class. _

It’s fine. 

There is also the Heroine’s journey. 

The Heroine’s Journey, as outlined by [ Victoria Lynn Schmidt ](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Heroine%27s_journey#Victoria_Lynn_Schmidt's_version_of_the_heroine's_journey) and modelled after the [ Descent of Inanna ](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Inanna#Descent_into_the_Underworld) , is a story where self-exploration is front and centre, rather than taking a backseat to the the exploration of a new, unknown world. The protagonist is not “called to adventure” by external figures like they might be on a Hero’s Journey. They realize of their own accord that they can no longer bear the status quo of their life, and go on a journey where they seek to prove to _ themselves _ that they are strong. If the hero’s journey is the process of climbing a mountain, the heroine’s journey is one of a long fall into a pit, and the equally long climb out. 

Examples of the Heroine’s Journey include _ Star Wars: Knights of the Old Republic II: The Sith Lords _ , _ Star Wars: The Empire Strikes Back _ ( [ as written up by jkateel ](https://www.reddit.com/r/kotor/comments/cywqqk/what_makes_knights_of_the_old_republic_2_so/) ), _ Tangled _ , and _ Dragon Age 2 _ ( [ as written up by flutiebear ](https://flutiebear.tumblr.com/post/22840957119/taking-the-heroines-journey-how-this-often)). The second of those two links is the one I found when I was procrastinating. 

I’ll try and quickly outline the nine stages of the Heroine’s Journey, using the examples of _ Once More with Pharaohs _ , _ Dirty Dancing _ , and _ Inception _ . _ Inception _ is actually an extra-interesting example because while Cobb is on the Heroine’s Journey, Fischer is on a parallel Hero’s Journey, though it is very short and he is more or less carried by Cobb & Co. the whole way.

There are nine stages of the Heroine’s Journey: 

  1. Act I: Containment
    1. The Illusion of a Perfect World
    2. The Betrayal or Realization
    3. The Awakening 
  2. Act II: Transformation
    1. The Descent 
    2. The Eye of the Storm
    3. Death
  3. Act III: Emergence
    1. Support
    2. Rebirth
    3. The Return to the Perfect World

#### Act I

In Act 1, the protagonist is presented with the **Illusion of a Perfect World**. All seems peachy, except that it isn’t really. Perfection is an illusion, and the protagonist has developed a coping strategy to deal with the flaws in the world. They may be living in denial, a doormat at work, or feeling too helpless to change. 

  * In_ Dirty Dancing_, Baby is on vacation with her parents, playing charades and croquet. It’s not that much fun, but she’s not sure what else there is to life. She has plans to join the Peace Corps after college, but does she really know what she’s getting herself into? 
  * _Inception _doesn’t really have an Illusion of a Perfect World. Cobb starts the movie clearly unhappy. He misses his kids, and lives risky paycheck to risky paycheck. His life is clearly shittastic. 
  * In _OMwP_, Aziraphale has spent a long, long time sniping at Crowley and pretending to be fine with it, because Upstairs has got his back, and he can always call for backup. Maybe he made a mistake becoming Head Scribe, and maybe he doesn’t really enjoy arguing with Crowley, but he’s convinced himself through the power of selective memory that things could be worse. 

Then, there is the **Betrayal** , or the **Realization** that all is not well in the world. The illusion of the perfect world is irrevocably shattered, and the pieces can no longer be swept under the rug. The coping mechanism that the protagonist has been employing to cope with their dissatisfaction with their life falls short. A nervous breakdown is reasonable at this point in the story. 

  * In _Dirty Dancing_, Baby realizes that Bobbie has gotten Penny pregnant. The men of the upper class are not as dependable as she hoped that they might be. 
  * _Inception_, again, never had much of an illusion of a perfect world to start with. Cobb doesn’t trust himself or the world around him. But against his better judgement, he asks his subconcious projection of Mal to stay seated while he ties a rope to her chair and climbs out the window. She gets up nearly immediately. His architect fails him by making Saito’s rug polyester instead of wool. The job for Cobol engineering goes pear-shaped.
  * In _OMwP_, Aziraphale encounters multiple betrayals before accepting that his Perfect World is not perfect at all: Tuesday repeats on him, Gabriel rejects his requests for help, and finally, the Almighty Janitor breaks it to poor Aziraphale that he will receive no help from Heaven. 

The final stage of Act I is the **Awakening.** The protagonist realizes that there is no going back to the Perfect World, and that they must forge a new path for themselves. This is where they begin to gather the new tools and strategies they think they need to move forward. 

  * In_ Dirty Dancing_, Baby dumps a pitcher of water on Robbie and begins to spend her time with Johnny instead. She has confidence in her budding dance skills, her father’s wallet, and a new beau at hand. She imagines that she’ll be able to learn Penny’s part in the dance routine with ease. 
  * In_ Inception_, Cobb accepts Saito’s job and begins to gather a new team together - Ariadne, Eames, and Yusuf. He is also relying on his existing experience and skill in manipulating dreams. 
  * In_ OMwP_, Aziraphale is terrified to learn that Upstairs will be no help at all, but realizes that he must partner with Crowley to translate the scroll. He keeps a sense of reserve and duty with him, though, hoping that being sufficiently studious and keeping the demon at arm’s length will get him through to Wednesday. 

#### Act II

Having made the decision to awaken and move away from the old patterns of their life, the protagonist begins the **Descent**. They confront their fears and obstacles. The tools they brought are not quite as useful as they thought they might be, and are lost at each obstacle. The protagonist must learn to trust themselves. 

The protagonist will also undergo trials in the Hero’s Journey, but the difference is that the protagonist will gain knowledge, power, and other useful tools after overcoming obstacles on the Hero’s Journey. 

  * In _Star Wars_, Luke receives his father’s lightsaber, access to the Millennium Falcon, and an alliance with Princess Leia. 
  * In _The Matrix_, Neo learns kung fu and gets access to pretty much every gun ever made circa 1999. 

Whereas in the Heroine’s Journey, the protagonist _ loses _ the tools they previously gathered, proving unsuitable for the journey that the protagonist is _ actually _ on. The power and control that the protagonist values is stripped away during their descent into the plot. They learn to rely on their own strength and instinct as all their plans go to hell in a handbasket. 

  * In _Dirty Dancing_, dancing does not come as easily to Baby as she previously hoped, and she loses some of her self-consciousness while learning to dance with Johnny. Her father is also not as forgiving as she thought he might be, and she loses his trust after he is called to help Penny with her botched back-alley abortion. 
  * In_ Inception_, Cobb loses members of his team as he descends through the layers of the dream. The strategies he uses to keep Mal at bay - making Ariadne build the dreams, using Yusuf’s sedative for the extra layers of dream stability - all backfire. 
  * In _OMwP_, Aziraphale slowly goes nuts because of his focus on the scroll. Wanting to stop Razikael is not sufficient motivation to finish the translation. He has to let go of his single-minded focus on the scroll in order not to lose his mind from boredom. He lets go of some of his pride, and some of his secrets (e.g. his favourite colour) and begins to pull his head out of his ass and learn about himself and the world around him. Later on, he’s forced to confront the fact that he might, in fact, care about Crowley. Only when he’s able to admit that to himself is he able to progress on his journey. 

But at last, the protagonist reaches the **Eye of the Storm** \- a respite from their struggles. A moment of triumph. All seems well. It may even feel like the end of the journey. The protagonist relaxes and enjoys their triumph for a moment. The stages of the Descent and the Eye of the Storm may repeat themselves multiple times during the Heroine’s journey. Challenges are followed by small victories, which in turn are followed by further challenges. 

  * In _Dirty Dancing_, Baby and Johnny successfully pull off their mambo routine, deepen their relationship, and make love. 
  * In_ Inception_, it looks like Cobb’s “Mr. Charles” con is working, and they make it down to the safe in the snow fortress. 
  * In_ OMwP_, Aziraphale finally figures out Crowley’s favourite colour, and eventually finishes translating the scroll. 

But the Eye of the Storm is a transitory state: once it passes, the protagonist is thrown full-force into the winds of the hurricane, and passes into the **Death **phase. The protagonist becomes utterly vulnerable. All seems lost. They are ready to accept defeat. 

  * In_ Dirty Dancing_, Baby admits to her father and Mr. Kellerman that Johnny was with her when the wallet was stolen. Johnny still loses his job, and her father wants to end their vacation early. 
  * In _Inception,_ Mal rears her head again, shoots Fischer, and the job seems completely botched. 
  * In _OMwP,_ the death stage begins after Aziraphale gets sent to Purgatory to finish out the Tuesday afternoon. He is completely helpless, and causes him to wallow on an island with Crowley for several days afterwards. 

As the name suggests, Death is the darkest point in the story. But it gets better! 

#### Act III 

**Support** is what pries the protagonist out of the Death stage. Even if they are alone, they can draw strength from their beliefs, their experiences, and their memories. Support reminds the protagonist that they are not alone, and that there may yet be a light at the end of the tunnel. What the Support _ doesn’t _ do is swoop in and solve all of the protagonist’s problems for them. 

  * In_ Dirty Dancing_, Baby draws on her memories of her Father telling her that “everyone was alike and deserved a fair break” to justify her support of Johnny. Johnny comforts Baby even after he loses his job, telling her that her actions for him weren’t for nothing. Even Baby’s sister helps her with her hair right before the final show, symbolizing their renewed sisterly bonds. 
  * In _Inception_, Ariadne reminds Cobb they can go even further into the dream and retrieve Fischer. Ariadne is the support through the entire movie, really, because she forces Cobb to slowly confront his memories of Mal and his unhealthy coping mechanism. 
  * In _OMwP_, the support stage begins when Crowley tells Aziraphale to snap out of his drunken funk. It continues with Crowley’s endorsement of Aziraphale’s plan. Even Menet and Khapet play a support role, showing Aziraphale that he is not completely useless, and that when it comes down to it, he is capable of saving lives and being a good person. And Crowley still plays a support role even after he’s been beheaded, in Aziraphale’s memories when he’s losing a duel with Razikael. The final act of support comes from Menet and Khapet, when they encourage Aziraphale to go after Crowley. 
    * In truth, Aziraphale doesn’t even come out of the death phase until after he’s discorporated Crowley. Just because Crowley said that he was capable of pulling off the plan didn’t mean he believed it. 

The Support phase is followed by **Rebirth**. The protagonist has found their strength and leaps fearlessly towards their goal. They are no longer afraid, because they’ve already faced their darkest fears during the Death stage From this, they draw strength - they have nothing left to lose, and everything to gain. 

  * In_ Dirty Dancing_, the rebirth is the final dance. It’s the end of the summer. Baby has practiced the choreography with Johnny. The last time she tried the move, she aborted it out of fear. This time, she’s overcome worse than wiping out onstage - she’s stood up to her father, and to Bobby, and the Kellermans. She leaps fearlessly into Johnny’s arms. 
  * In _Inception,_ the rebirth occurs when Cobb confronts Mal. He’s spent the entire movie telling the story of their marriage to Ariadne. It’s probably the first time he’s ever said it out loud, and it helps him confront the truth that the Mal in his subconscious is not real. He says goodbye to Mal, and descends fearlessly into Limbo to find Saito. 
  * In_ OMwP_, rebirth occurs when Aziraphale realizes that Crowley _meant_ it when he said “clever angel,” and successfully exorcises Razikael from the Pharaoh. 

And then the protagonist has achieved their goal, and is ready to **Return to the Perfect World**. They’ve found their strength, and come full circle back to where they started. But now they are no longer relying on their old coping strategies. They’ve learned they have their own strength to draw on. 

  * In_ Dirty Dancing_, we don’t see the Return to the Perfect World, but we know that Baby probably goes back and joins the Peace Corps according to plan. However, she does so with a fuller understanding of the tyrants and ogres on her path ahead, and secure in the knowledge that she has faced them once, and can face them again. 
  * In _Inception_, Cobb wakes up and returns to reality, where he is able to walk fearlessly through airport security and back home. Saito may have made the call to exonerate him, but Cobb has finally exorcised Mal’s hold on his subconscious. 
  * In _OMwP_, Aziraphale is able to fend off Sandalphon’s ambitions of going down to the field, wins a commendation from Gabriel, ensures a peaceful political environment in Egypt, and spends time with his human friends. Also, he’s quit his job! His decades as the court astronomer are much happier than if he’d been stuck as the head scribe. 

But the thing is, nothing ever ends. The Perfect World doesn’t stay perfect. And near the end of _ OMwP _ , Aziraphale is encouraged by Menet and Khapet (and also the Almighty Janitor) to go find Crowley. And thus, _ Ye Saga Continuef _... 

Anyway, I hope that this little introduction of the Heroine’s Journey has been helpful to anyone looking for ideas on how to smack a full character arc in their own fics. I suspect various characters in _ Good Omens _ are also on their own Heroine’s Journeys, but I’ll leave confirmation of that suspicion as an exercise for the reader :) 

  
  



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